


Kingsfoil

by Raider_k



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Elvenking, F/M, Fabulous!Thranduil, Feel-good, Fluff and Angst, Girl Power, Humor, Intrigue, Mirkwood, Mystery, Non-Graphic Violence, Protective Legolas Greenleaf, Protective Thranduil, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Sassy, Secret Crush, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:00:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 107,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27839503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raider_k/pseuds/Raider_k
Summary: Long has Thranduil shielded his kingdom from the darkness, but now he must face a new threat while Legolas is away with the Fellowship.Featuring dwarves behaving badly, plenty of Elvenking sass, and an unexpected romance.#ElvenkingsNeedLoveToo
Relationships: Thranduil (Tolkien)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 110
Kudos: 124





	1. Anxious

Kingsfoil

Prologue: Anxious

July 3018, The Third Age

The night was already late and well into the early hours of the morning when Legolas met with his father, not in the throne room, but in the king's own private study. It did not escape Thranduil's notice that his son's eyes were weary, and his usual immaculate appearance looked rather unkempt. His son was exhausted, Thranduil decided, and rightfully so.

For the past week, Legolas' patrols had searched desperately for that miserable creature, Gollum, but with little good fortune, and orc raids had tested the border patrols every night. As Captain of the guard, Legolas had shouldered every responsibility, but also every loss as well, and the cost weighed on him heavily.

"How many?" Thranduil asked quietly.

"Three more, Father," the prince said, his tone bleak. "At this rate, we will not be able to hold our border against Dol Guldur any longer—"

Thranduil cut him off. "Stop the search for Gollum, Legolas. We can ill afford any more losses on our borders and could use the extra guards to reinforce the southern ridge."

The prince's eyes flashed. "What? And just let him go back to the enemy? Father, you know what Estel said about keeping him safe!"

Thranduil placed a calming hand on his son's shoulder and sighed. "I know, Legolas. Estel was wholly right about that creature's penchant for mischief, I fear." He picked up a loose piece of parchment from his desk and passed it to the prince. "And now Elrond has sent word, again." The king crossed his arms and waited for Legolas to scan the contents of the Rivendell lord's latest missive.

After a quick perusal, Legolas glanced up. "You must let me go to this council. It was my fault that Gollum escaped. I should bear the news to Lord Elrond myself."

Thranduil's eyes darkened. "It was no one's fault, Legolas, except that accursed creature's."

"Father, please. Please let me do this. You know that I have traveled to Imladris before and can make the journey quickly."

"What of Thaliniel, Legolas?" Thranduil hedged. "You know that she will want to go with you."

"She has made the journey with me in the past, many times," his son countered. He knew his wife would want to go, even if the road was more dangerous than ever.

Thranduil dropped back into his favorite chair and picked up his glass. He swirled the contents for a moment, before taking a slow sip, hating the words he knew he must say. "You may go to Imladris, Legolas, but please be careful and return as soon as possible. I need you here."

Legolas nodded, and his eyes were grave. "Thank you, my king. We will be careful." He picked up his weapons at the door and paused. Rarely had he seen his father look so fatigued. "Father? I called Narylfiel back from the front lines."

The king looked up sharply. "She will not thank you for that, son," said Thranduil. "She will not want to stay in palace long when the fight has turned so deadly on our southern rim." He tiredly pulled off his crown and unceremoniously dumped it on the table near his chair.

Legolas frowned. "Yes, but she will follow her captain's orders. It will put my mind at ease to know that she is safe in the palace."

Thranduil drained his glass and stood. He knew he would find no rest that night, but he might as well take refuge in the comfort of his own chambers and fully stocked wine closet. Picking up his crown, he followed his son toward the royal quarters, neither speaking, for their hearts were heavy. The king stopped the prince before entering his chambers.

"Thank you, Legolas," said the king, meeting his son's eyes, and with a good night, shut his door. He offered no explanation for his thanks, nor did he need to.

\- ~ - ~ -  
_Author's Note: Woot! New story, and I am super excited. This will be my first Thranduil-centric story. Long live the party king! ___


	2. Stunning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so our story begins...

Chapter 1: Stunning

* * *

_...Four hundred years ago…_

_She had never seen him before and had only heard stories, so when the day finally came, Narylfiel was fairly certain that the Elvenking could hardly live up to her expectations. After all she was a young impressionable elf with a very vivid imagination. Her father had told her stories about his bravery during the Battle of the Last Alliance, her aunt had filled her ear with tales of times that she had seen him pass by on the way to Dale, a set of sleek elven warriors on either side of his mount. He rode taller than most in the saddle and, in her aunt's words, was impossibly fair._

_Yes, she could imagine quite a bit._

_So when at last she had a chance to see the King of the Woodland Realm for herself on a fateful day in Dale, Narylfiel thought she was better prepared than most for the meeting._

_She could not have been more wrong._

_She was glad, so glad, that her neighbor Barathion went through the door first that day, clumsily explaining their errand to the king and giving her a chance to collect herself before necessity would require introductions. For just a moment there when she first peeked at the king sitting at his desk, Narylfiel found herself speechless, her heart strangely aflutter in her chest._

_She could not have named for you the strange feeling coursing through her veins that day, but she felt as though all of Arda might have fallen away and been replaced with a brighter, more luminous version of itself._

* * *

July, 3018 Third Age:

Thranduil. Long had he been her refuge, her confidante, her rock, but only now, Narylfiel felt more inclined to punch him in the face. She was sure that it had been on his orders that her patrol duty with the Forest Guard had been cut short.

She tapped her foot impatiently outside the king's study, while one of the royal guards secured permission for her to enter. She hardly ever had to wait, for she was a regular visitor to the king, but the guard Elfir must have sensed that something was amiss. He was probably warning off the king right now. Caution: crazy elleth outside. Narylfiel narrowed her eyes at the thought until Thranduil's voice called for her admittance. She brushed past Elfir with a sneer, almost feeling bad at the abject look of hurt in the elf's eyes. He had long been one of her favorites, ever since she was a young elleth, but no one, no one, could ever rise so high in her estimation as King Thranduil.

Even in her angry, generally disgruntled, 'I really want to hate you right now' frame of mind, Narylfiel almost forgot herself as their eyes met across the room. He was just so...stunning? Handsome beyond compare? Immaculate? She had grown up under the protection of his halls, as one of his favourite companions, and still she struggled to find words to describe him. She broke eye contact and pointed a smudged finger at him. "You!" she bit off the word. "Did you, or did you not, tell your son to send orders requesting my return to the palace?"

Thranduil eyed her for a minute, gauging for himself the level of her pique. In truth, he sort of enjoyed seeing Narylfiel worked unto a huff, her cheeks faintly pink and her eyes blazing. "I am glad to see you returned safely, Narylfiel," he told her, his voice as smooth and warm as the cup of tea in his hand. He took a slow sip and crossed his legs, leaning back in his chair, comfortable.

Her eyes sparked. "You did not answer the question, my lord," she prompted him.

"No, I did not," replied the king, faint amusement coloring his tone.

"No, you did not send the order, or 'No' as in you did not answer my question?" She prompted him.

"Legolas sent the order, Narylfiel," corrected the king as he gestured toward the settee by the fire. "Have a seat. Try some of these delicious tarts, your favorite," he tempted her.

Narylfiel eyed the tray, and then jerked the glove off her left hand, her vambraces following shortly after. She stole a glance at the king, cozy in his chair, and then dropped the pair of them unceremoniously on the floor with a clatter. Narylfiel pulled off her right shoulder guard next and then huffed as the closure on the back snagged in her hair. She yanked on it and then eyed Thranduil poisonously.

"Don't you dare laugh," she warned him. She tried twisting around to see the back of her armor.

"I would never," said the king, the corners of his lips quirking up. He sat his tea down on the tray and rose from his chair.

Narylfiel gave her armor a fierce tug, immediately wincing as her hair pulled even tighter.

"Stop," he chided her. "You'll pull your hair out."

She scowled and stopped.

"Here, let me," he said, moving behind her, gathering her long brown hair into his left hand, while his right worked deftly to free the snarl of hair from the fastenings of her armor. "You are far too impulsive, naurenniel." His voice was soft against her ear, and she could feel his breath warm against her neck as he leaned in closer to try and work her hair loose from the lower fastening.

Narylfiel stilled and felt the heat rise to her cheeks. Naurenniel—little flame—his nickname for her since she had come to live in his palace as an elfling. He would always see her as a child.

"I still had two weeks left of my patrol on the southern rim," stated Narylfiel while the king continued to work on her hair. "Why did Legolas send me back early? We were short-handed as it was."

Thranduil pulled the last snag of hair loose and gently guided her around to face him. "Narylfiel, he did so out of concern for me, I'm afraid. Legolas and your sister both left yesterday morning to answer a summons from Lord Elrond. He has called a council in Imladris. The prince probably thought I could use some company."

At once, Narylfiel understood and tentatively placed her hand on his shoulder. "They will arrive safely, Thranduil. Thaliniel will keep Legolas from doing anything too reckless, I am sure."

He nodded and bleakly added, "I knew once that wretched creature escaped that Legolas would need to leave soon to inform Estel, but..." His eyes darkened. Thranduil never felt at ease when his son left the safety of their borders.

"The enemy is getting stronger, my king. Our lines on the southern border were sorely tested," Narylfiel said gravely, remembering the casualties suffered in the last attack. Three dead, when merely one was a price too high to pay.

"So Legolas told me," the king agreed. He had met with the families of the fallen only hours earlier, and he hated seeing the same defeated look in Narylfiel's eyes. "Enough of this gloomy talk. I have scant seen you for two weeks, and I would have our visit dwell on happier matters." He offered her a small smile as he led her to his sitting area, where the tray of tarts still waited, deliciously tempting.

"Did you tell Ernil to bake these?" Narylfiel said as she placed one on a delicate plate and then poured the king some more tea before helping herself to some. Narylfiel's stay at the king's court had greatly improved her social graces, and Thranduil had since let her take over the role of hostess during their tea times together.

Thranduil smiled again. He may have mentioned it in passing to the head baker, who knew that both the king and his young companion had a deep fondness for his berry tarts. Ernil adored the prince's wife and her young sister.

"So, Narylfiel, have you caught anyone's eye while you were out on patrol?" the king inquired, a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Hardly," she snorted.

This was a game they had been playing for years. He would ask if she had any suitors, and then she would go down the list of guards she served with or the young courtiers in the palace, explaining while the whole lot of them were implicitly unsuitable. Much more often, Narylfiel was the matchmaker, not the matchee; she had an uncanny gift for seeing who would pair well with whom. After all, had she not orchestrated her own sister's marriage to Prince Legolas? She had known from the start that they would be perfect for each other. All it had taken was a little plotting, a little prodding. Since then she had made several more splendid matches among her friends in the guard and in the palace.

Except for herself, she mused half-heartedly.

"Hmm," said Thranduil as he sipped from his tea. "What about Nendir?" The ellon in question had been extremely attentive to Narylfiel during the last feast.

Narylfiel fixed him with an incredulous look. "Nendir? Thranduil, please! I think you put him up to it."

Now the king's turn to look astonished. "You are charming and lovely in your own right, Narylfiel. You hardly need my help," he scoffed. In truth, he _had_ asked Nendir to entertain Narylfiel. The king liked to play matchmaker as much as she.

Narylfiel grew silent and picked at her berry tart. It did not escape Thranduil's notice that she had hardly eaten.

"Narylfiel, what troubles you?" Thranduil asked her, and most of the time the warmth of his voice could tempt her to spill all of her secret worries. She usually ended up telling him everything.

"All of my friends have paired off, gotten married," she mumbled, not raising her eyes.

"And much of that was of your own doing," Thranduil reminded her. "But you are still very young and should not feel so lonely."

"Yes, that's true, only—" but she did not finish what she started.

"You are worried for your sister and Legolas?" Thranduil guessed.

She nodded her head, letting the king believe that was the sole cause of her misery. Of course she had other things on her mind, but she _was_ worried for them.

Thranduil set his tea down and moved next to her on the settee. "Come over here," he prompted her and propped his arm up on the back of the furniture.

Narylfiel slid over next to him, comforted by his warmth and scent, which always reminded her of a crisp autumn day in the forest. They had sat this way many times over the years, gossiping, reading, planning parties together, laughing, his arm draped around her shoulders.

She leaned her head against his shoulder. "I missed you, you know," she whispered to him.

"I missed you too, my naurenniel," he agreed, placing a light kiss on top of her head.

Narylfiel's heart twisted painfully at a truth she had come to realize long ago. She loved him, of that she was certain.

Only he would always see her as child, at most a friend.

She closed her eyes. She could faintly hear his heart beat.

This would have to be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Okay... So let me know your thoughts, of course! I am very interested in what you have to say about the time period, during the War, and the character pairing with Thranduil and of course, his characterization.
> 
> Please comment and give this story a much needed boost of 'Comment & Kudo Power' awesomeness.


	3. Thankful

_300 years ago…_

_Narylfiel studied herself in the full length mirror in her sister's room where for the past hour, Thaliniel and her attendants had been brushing and braiding her chestnut brown hair into a soft fall of curls. Gone was the wide-eyed elfling that first came to these halls, and in her place stood a tall, confident elleth. She gave the mirror her best confident smile. Well, at least Narylfiel hoped she exuded confidence._

_To say that she was excited about the evening's feast for her coming of age celebration would be a vast understatement. She had been looking forward to this evening ever since last year's name day. Her father and aunt had already come up from his vineyard for the festivities and planned on staying for a fortnight to see her induction into the Forest Guard._

_She and King Thranduil had planned all the details together. At first, she had been pretty surprised to learn of Thranduil's secret love of planning events; he usually chose all the details for the feasts and dances at the palace, letting most people believe that his chief of staff Galadhor handled the arrangements. But since Narylfiel shared the king's love of planning and plotting, they had become even closer, bonding over long afternoons as they pored over menu choices and carefully plotted seating arrangements for the feast._

_The door opened behind her, and Narylfiel quipped, "Did you get lost again?" Thaliniel was supposed to be back half an hour ago._

" _A king never gets lost," Thranduil answered in that deep voice of his._

_Narylfiel turned around with a grin. "I thought you were my sister!" she exclaimed, her eyes lighting up._

" _Now, I have not been mistaken for anyone's sister in a very long time," he teased, not that anyone would really mistake him for an elleth tonight. Even though Narylfiel had grown much over the years, he still stood a good head and then some over her, and tonight he looked impossibly regal and broad-shouldered in his tailored to perfection silvery tunic._

" _Well, what do you think?" she asked and curtsied in her long gown, made to the latest style._

_The king stepped back and appeared to appraise her very seriously. "Hmm… Something seems to be missing," he concluded._

_Narylfiel's head snapped toward the mirror. "What?" she asked, paranoia creeping into her voice. She thought she looked decent, but surely the king would know better!_

" _Some jewelry, perhaps?" suggested Thranduil, and he pulled from his pocket a lustrous circle of gold and white gems. "May I?" he asked._

_Narylfiel could hardly nod; she was so overcome with delight and surprise at his generosity._

" _Legolas, your sister, and I-we are all just so very proud of what you have become, Narylfiel," he told her as he placed the necklace around her neck. "You have grown into a truly lovely young lady, and I am very thankful for the day you came to my halls."_

" _Oh, Thranduil," Narylfiel started but felt her eyes tearing up at his admission. "I—"_

_He pulled her into a slight hug, careful not to muss her dress. "No tears, Narylfiel, for tonight will prove to be the most glorious name day celebration you've had yet!" he promised her._

" _Thank you, my king," said Narylfiel, still feeling a little misty-eyed. "Thank you for everything, Thranduil—for putting up with all my silliness, for letting me visit you all those times in your study when I was little, when I must have been quite a nuisance to you!"_

" _Never," he declared solemnly and caught a stray tear on her cheek and lifted it off with his finger. "Well…maybe there were a few times…" he deadpanned, but his eyes were merry._

" _Hmph!" protested Narylfiel, and she turned for a second to admire the necklace in the mirror. Then, without thinking, she reached for his hand, and held it in both of her own. The king looked a little surprised, but did not pull away. His hand, so much larger than her small ones, was warm and slightly callused from years of weapons training. She met his gaze and held it. "I mean it, Thranduil. You may be the king, but you always, always made me feel important in my own right. So, thank you. For being my friend."_

_Thranduil smiled broadly, a rare thing, for the gesture lit up his entire face. Then he offered her his arm to escort her to the party, and she took it proudly._

_Whether it was his intention to or not, the King of the Woodland Realm made Narylfiel feel beautiful, cherished. On turning to leave, she glanced quickly at their reflection together in the mirror, and her breath caught in her throat a little; it was an image she would not soon forget, one that her thoughts would often trail back to over the coming days._

* * *

July 3018

Narylfiel moved quietly down the corridors of the palace to her room, which was at the beginning of the royal family's wing; she guessed the more important you were, the further down the hall your room was. King Thranduil's suite of private rooms was located at the far end of the hall; the prince's was on the opposite side. Plain old sisters to the princess did not rate very highly, she supposed. Her room was right by the entrance, and that suited Narylfiel just fine. She did not have to walk as much to get there! And even though she had lived with the royal family ever since Thaliniel had married Legolas, sometimes she still could not believe that she was actually living in the palace.

She reached her room and pulled the door shut with a sigh. Narylfiel rethought her conversation with the king upon her return. Sometimes it was just easier to be away from him. When she was out on patrol with the guards, she had plenty to occupy her mind. Keeping busy had become her salvation. She had begun to sign up for as many patrols as she could, often taking the longest missions or volunteering for the most remote locations. Legolas had noticed, of course, but he had yet to say anything, as her brother-in-law or the Captain of the Guard for that matter.

Her sister was a different story. Thaliniel had pulled Narylfiel aside after she had served five weeks in a row guarding the border.

"Why are you doing this to yourself?" her sister had asked about her lengthy absence, concern written in her eyes. Narylfiel knew Thaliniel had her best interests at heart, but she could not bring herself to tell her the real reason.

She was desperately trying to avoid Thranduil, and oh, by the way, it might just be because she had loved him for years and the fact that there was nothing she could do about it made her miserable.

So Narylfiel had shrugged and told her sister nothing. Thaliniel had not pried, but Narylfiel suspected that she had taken her complaints to the prince.

Hence, her current return to the palace with no hopes of reinstatement in patrol duty until Legolas returned, Narylfiel thought gloomily. She kicked off her boots and flopped on her bed.

What she needed now was a distraction, she decided, something, anything to keep her busy. She stared at the ceiling. No, it was no good. Pointless, even. She could not even leave and return back to her patrol. With the recent threats from Dol Guldur, she knew that the king had tightened security in the palace, so simply leaving was out of the question.

She imagined herself trying to sneak out and getting caught, being summarily dragged before a disapproving Thranduil in the throne room. Oh Valar! Narylfiel rolled her eyes and then sat up.

She was being foolish. Thranduil was one of her dearest friends.

He was also her king. She counted herself extremely thankful and blessed to have the close relationship she had with him.

She peeled off her guard's uniform and threw it in the corner. Stalking over to her wardrobe, Narylfiel flung open the door with all the resolution of one determined to make a fresh start. Instead of choosing a dress though, Narylfiel peered at the mirror on the inside of the door. A messy haired, angry looking elleth stared back. When had she decided to let such bitterness take root in her heart? She frowned, then tried a small smile.

Of course, she cared for Thranduil. He had always been there for her. She reached for her warrior braids and began to undo them, strand by strand, brushing her hair until it shone again. Then she put on her favorite dress, determined to make things right.

After all, she had made dozens of happy matches for countless couples over the year. Why could she not just make one for herself?

Long had she thought of the pairing of Legolas and Thaliniel as the pinnacle of her match-making efforts, but this—if she could pull this off—this would be her greatest achievement.

Of course, Thranduil was much more shrewd and would prove infinitely more difficult to handle than easy-going Legolas had been. Thranduil would be a true challenge.

Fortunately, Narylfiel loved a challenge.

* * *

Meanwhile, Thranduil called a meeting with Galadhor, his chief of staff, and Beriadan, his senior Captain of the Guard. Both the elves arrived at the same time, slipping into the council chambers and pulling up a chair to the enormous carven table at the center of the room. Thranduil selected a map from the nearby basket and unrolled it with a flourish.

"The situation has deteriorated more quickly than even I anticipated," the king said quietly.

Beriadan's mouth tightened into a grim line. He had just returned from the eastern border of the forest only hours ago and knew how dire things could become in the south.

Thranduil pushed some stone tokens onto the map. "Here, here, and here," he pointed to the southern rim, sliding the markers into place. "This is where the last attacks occurred before Legolas left. According to our scouts, the orcs' numbers are not only increasing, they are being more strategic." He frowned, and then pushed three more markers into place. "And this is where the attacks occurred in June."

The three elves stood silently, as they stared at the map on the table. "Oh, Valar," Galadhor breathed. "Are they-?" He did not finish, hoping that he had read the map wrong. After all, he administered the staffing for the palace and rarely dealt with military issues. Really, he had wondered why the king had called him to this meeting in the first place. Only now he was beginning to understand.

Thranduil nodded. "Before he left for Imladris, Legolas and I sat down together. We marked the locations of all the recent skirmishes for the past six months, and there was only one conclusion to be had," said the king as his eyes met Beriadan's.

"They are strategically testing the southern border for weaknesses in our defenses," Thranduil stated gravely. "The enemy plans to invade, perhaps even overrun the southern wood. And if that border cannot hold…"

"Then the palace will be vulnerable," gasped Galadhor.

"Which is why I summoned you, Galadhor," the king said, his eyes worried. "We must take precautions for that possibility. We need to fortify the palace in case the southern border falls. We have to be ready to defend ourselves."

"Do we have any idea of a timeline?" asked the chief of staff, thinking of all the preparations he needed to make. All the stocking up he should start in case of a blockade.

Beriadan and the king looked at each other. "We cannot know for sure," Thranduil concluded slowly. "If our defenses in the south can hold, this may not even be an issue, but it would be foolhardy to ignore this threat.

"Legolas went to Imladris for a council meeting. Lord Elrond's message all but hinted that open war may be upon us if we do not act soon. He knows how dire the threat of Dol Guldur has become," the king finished, his eyes cool.

Beriadan and Thranduil agreed to fortify the southern defenses with more warriors, and Galadhor left to discuss ordering more provisions from Dale with the kitchen staff. Just as Beriadan stepped out of the council chambers, Narylfiel poked her head through the door.

"You changed out of your uniform, I see," Thranduil noted. After much debate, Narylfiel had selected a lovely dark green gown and wore her hair down long and loose around her face, save for a few strands pulled back with a small clip given to her by Thaliniel and Legolas during the last Feast of Starlight celebration.

"It was pretty filthy," Narylfiel admitted as she slipped into the room and came to stand with the king by the map, noting the placement of the markers along the southern border.

She nudged the closest one with her finger. "I was here," she commented, looking up at Thranduil.

"I know," he told her. He slid the tokens off the map and proceeded to roll it up.

"You were meeting with Beriadan about the southern border?" she guessed, hoping that he might fill her in on what was happening.

"I was," Thranduil answered noncommittally. He dropped the rolled up map into the basket on the side table.

Narylfiel frowned. "Will Beriadan take Legolas' place commanding the southern defenses?" she asked stiffly. Could Thranduil not sense how worried she was for her friends still serving down there?

"Yes, he will, Narylfiel. That was what our meeting was about. Nothing to worry about," Thranduil said, dropping the markers into a wooden box to punctuate each of his last words.

Narylfiel stopped his hand on the last piece. "I am already worried, Thranduil," she said. "I was there for the last attacks, when we were almost overrun with orcs. I watched Faelhir get cut down by orcs only yards from me, and there was nothing I could do to save him while those _creatures_ defiled his body. So, yes—I _am_ already worried." She gestured to the tokens. "Those were all of our most recent battles, my king, but I was there!" she bit off her last word and looked away.

"Narylfiel." Thranduil reached for her shoulder, but she tugged away.

"I was there, and you had this meeting without me. I was there, but you—"

"Narylfiel, settle down," Thranduil said sternly. "You had just returned and were exhausted. Your exclusion from the meeting was not in any way a reflection on your value to me."

The elleth bristled at his tone. "If that is true, my king, then let me return to the border," she asked. "Send me back."

Thranduil turned away from her, walked across the room, and pulled the door shut. "You know that I cannot do that," he told her firmly, standing in front of the door.

She fixed him with a cold look. "You are the king, my lord. Cannot? Or will not?"

Thranduil crossed the room in two smooth steps and seized her by the shoulders. "I would not send you within a hundred leagues of the southern border right now, Narylfiel," he hissed. "It has become far too dangerous."

To her credit, Narylfiel did not flinch at his tone or from his firm grip on her upper arms. Instead, she leaned in toward him. "I can help them, Thranduil," she stated softly, eyes meeting his. "I could be of service there. Here, I am nothing. Why force me to stay?"

The king released her and stepped back, as if she had burned him, a hurt expression flashing across his face before he regained control. "Legolas feared for your safety, Narylfiel. As do I." He took a deep breath and pushed a stray lock of hair behind his ear. "Do you not realize how cherished you are? You have never, could never, be 'nothing' to us, to me." He took a long look at her and then opening the door, left.

Shaken, Narylfiel stared after him.

Being two strong-willed individuals and friends, she and Thranduil naturally had their share of disagreements in the past, but he had never laid hands on her. She knew he had a temper-so did she! But the hurt look on his face… Of course she knew that he cared about her, she never meant to imply otherwise.

She ran her fingers across the engravings on the gleaming wooden box, which held the map tokens and thought about what she had seen on that map, what had been marked on the southern border, before Thranduil had cleared it away. She knew at least five of the tokens had marked locations where the defenses had been tested by the orcs.

Narylfiel drew a startled breath as a horrible thought occurred to her, the reason why Thranduil had so adamantly refused her return to the border. She worried her lip for a second as the realization sank in—her king feared a war with Dol Guldur, and this was just the beginning.

Feeling a little dazed, she took four slow steps out of the room and eyed the hall. Thranduil was long gone, but she could guess better than most where to find him.

Narylfiel drew up her skirts and began to run. She had to know the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: Whew. So... Please Comment! As always, I value your ideas, input, and feedback! :)
> 
> And for all you Thranduil-fans, if you haven't seen THIS yet, look up "Thranduil Lady GaGa music video" on YouTube. 😉


	4. Restless

_Two Weeks Ago…_

_Thranduil went over the latest reports from the Forest Guard. The enemy was moving. Ever since the attack on the woods at the end of June when Gollum had escaped, his warriors had seen a significant rise in attacks and skirmishes._

_He sighed as he noticed Legolas' ledger of appointments for the next shift of guard duty. Narylfiel had volunteered again for another three week stint on the Southern border, where the fighting had been the worst. Thranduil flipped backward in his son's ledger to the previous month, and then the one before that. As he continued turning the pages for the last six months, his son's careful notes confirmed his suspicions. Narylfiel had been regularly taking the worst and longest duty assignments ever since the last Yule. Thranduil was at a loss to understand why._

_He snapped the book shut and pushed his chair away from his desk, crossing his long legs as he did so. Reaching for his glass of red, Thranduil swirled the contents for a second and stared at the intricate tapestry on the opposite wall. He knew Narylfiel had many friends in the guard, and she had become extremely close to Legolas as well. He was like the older brother she never had. So she enjoyed serving in the Forest Guard, he concluded, but her schedule…that spoke of something else, some darker purpose. Something bothered her in the palace, perhaps, so she wanted to be out in the woods as much as possible._

_She had not always been that way. Thranduil remembered how she used to love being in his halls. She used to seek him out, popping into his study, uninvited, just to tell him about her day. Then hours later, they would have to call for a tray from the kitchen, because lunch had come and gone without their realizing it. She just treated him as she would a friend, not someone's king, and frankly that in itself was pretty refreshing. Thranduil would never admit it, but he loved spending those long hours with Narylfiel, just gossiping—he could always count on her for the latest news—or planning some sort of diversion in the palace; he and she were of similar minds when it came to planning festivities. He recalled the fun they had planning the Yule feast._

_The king frowned._

_He eyed the ledger on his desk and took a slow sip from his glass._

_It was right after the Yule feast that Narylfiel started signing up for longer guard duties._

_What had happened over the Yule to make her want to leave his Halls? Had someone hurt her? Thranduil wished he could call her into his study right now and grill her about it. She never could keep anything from him. Unfortunately, Narylfiel was still with the Forest Guard on the southern border of the forest, the area that had suffered the worst attacks as of late. At least, Legolas was there with her._

_He drained the rest of his glass and stood. When she returned, he would get to the truth of the matter and fix this problem for her. After all, he was the king, was he not?_

_Besides, he missed her._

* * *

July 3018 TA

Just as she expected he would be, Narylfiel found Thranduil in the stable. She had to walk all the way to the very back stalls, past the piles of fresh-smelling hay and the elegantly carved stable doors, before she found him under the flickering light of a single lantern. The king had shed his heavy robe and draped it carelessly across one of the stalls. He stood with a curry brush in one hand, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, as he patiently brushed the coat of Taurion, one of the Great Elks that had long been friendly with the woodelves.

Thranduil glanced up as Narylfiel approached but continued brushing the elk with long strokes, and the elk seemed to preen with pleasure at the attention given to him by the king.

"Thranduil," Narylfiel said at last, and the king paused, but did not lift his brush from the elk's side.

"I am listening," he said finally.

"Do you…do you remember when I first came to your halls, and you brought me down here to see Beinion?" Narylfiel recalled how she had fallen in love with the baby elk that Thranduil had healed in the days before her sister and Legolas had married. She had made so many trips down to the stables that the king had finally consented and let her name him.

Thranduil set the brush down on the railing and looked at her. "I do," he said, a little curious as to where this line of conversation was heading.

"Later, you told me that you debated bringing me down here, because you didn't want me to know that his mother had been killed by spiders. You wanted to protect me then." She paused and lifted her eyes to his. "I understand that decision, but now… I am a member of the forest guard now, Thranduil."

"I still want to protect you," he answered slowly. "What king am I if I cannot keep my people safe?"

Narylfiel sighed and combed her fingers through her hair. Curse his logic and his caring heart. She could hardly fault him for it.

He took a step toward her, eyes softening. "You are like Taurion, here," he said with a wry grin as he ran his hand along the enormous elk's neck. "I had the guards find him and bring him into the stables since the increased Orc activity. He is such a wild thing, yet he consents to the will of his king. But I know that even so, his heart still longs for the woods, and it troubles me greatly that I cannot give him that freedom."

"My king," she protested with a small smile. "I am hardly an elk."

Taurion snorted indignantly and stamped his hoof. Both elves looked at him and then each other amusedly.

"Not that you aren't wonderful, Taurion," Narylfiel corrected herself, laughing.

The king caught her chin with the tips of his fingers and guided her to look up at him. "I do not think that I was wrong for being angry with you earlier, but I should not have raised my voice, Naurenniel, nor should I have dealt with you so roughly. I am sorry." His eyes were dark in the low light of the lantern.

The effect he still had over her! A little tremor worked its way through her heart. She reached up, briefly resting the tips of her fingers on his bare wrist, and then dropped her hand. "I am sorry too," she confessed. "I should not have spoken thus."

Thranduil eyed her carefully. A shadow lingered in her eyes.

"I am glad you came down here, Narylfiel, but was that the only reason?" he asked carefully. "To smooth things over between us?" Thranduil recalled when he had reviewed the prince's ledgers, had despairingly noted all those times she had volunteered for back to back patrols. He worried for her, she who had always been so joyous, such a bright spirit to him.

Narylfiel looked away, bit her lip. "I had to know, Thranduil," she said. Her voice came out in a whisper. "Are we—are we going to war? I thought about the markers on the map after you left, and—"

His eyes were weary. "Trust you to figure it out, Narylfiel. I knew I would not be able to keep this from you," the king said with a mock sigh as his long fingers worked to roll down his sleeves.

"Why not just tell me then? Do I not have your trust?" she asked, a little hurt sounding.

"You do," Thranduil told her. "Of course, you do, Narylfiel." He picked up his silvery robe and folded it over his arm. "But it was my wish that you should not have this particular worry, that your heart be free from such a burden." He patted Taurion on the side and whispered something in his ear. The elk snorted again.

"I could help you, in Legolas' place, while he is gone," she offered. She held up her hand, explaining. "I understand that you do not want me back out on the patrol, but I could help you here."

Thranduil nodded slightly. "Very well," he agreed, "but let it be known that I am a relentless taskmaster, or so my son would claim."

"No one would dare suggest otherwise, my king," she teased.

Eyes gleaming, the king led the way out of the stables. Pleased, Narylfiel followed him back into the main halls of the palace.

If she wanted to help him, he would certainly let her. In fact he would keep her so busy, she would have precious little time to worry about anything else. He could frankly use the help; preparing the palace for a possible attack was no easy matter. In the meantime, he would find out just exactly had been bothering her. All of this business about avoiding his halls would be put to rest.

Thranduil smirked a little. This was a plan that could not fail.

He could not have been more wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh, the plot thickens. What exactly happened at the Yule Celebration that made Narylfiel want to leave? I bet we can make some pretty good guesses who it involves, right? We may, just may, have to see a flashback on that little incident. Ideas, anyone? Do they have mistletoe in Mirkwood? I'm thinking they might.
> 
> And now, Narylfiel will be working in close quarters with the king to prepare the palace for the war looming on the horizon.
> 
> It's July, and the council of Elrond is fast approaching.
> 
> Please, Please review and favorite! I need a COMMENT & KUDOS POWER BOOST on this story! ;) Because I'm all crazy and competitive like that, and it makes Thranduil happy. He refuses to admit he may be less popular than Legolas. Just sayin'.
> 
> #ThranduilDemandsKudos
> 
> Legolas: #SoEmbarrassed


	5. Devastated

Yule, 3017 TA

_Never before had a Yule feast been so merry or quite so loud. The king's best wine flowed steadily to every table. The fire roared bright on the enormous hearth of the banquet hall, the music piped cheerfully, and the mood was infectious. Every so often another elf would call out a toast to the elvenking. Everyone would drink to the king's honor, and Thranduil would have to drink as well._

_Even when the dancing began after dinner, the toasts to the king continued after every song. It almost became a game of sorts, and as the evening stretched on, Narylfiel noted that her king was looking just the slightest bit tipsy. Elven wine is extremely potent, and Dorwinion vintages even more so. His eyes were bright, and his cheeks were flushed. She had been contentedly watching her sister dance with Legolas, but every so often her eyes wandered to Thranduil's chair at the head of the table. She could not help herself. She just enjoyed watching him, not that it had anything to do with how regal he looked in his dark grey, sharply tailored tunic and his winter crown of evergreen sprigs and dark red berries. Of course not!_

_He caught her watching him and smiled a slow smile. The king sat his glass down and unexpectedly pushed away from the table, standing in one liquid motion. He crooked his finger at her and without waiting, moved around with the table with an easy grace, until he stood before her._

_"May I have the honor of the next dance, my lady?" Thranduil asked her, just as formal and proper as a king should, but dimples creased his cheeks._

_"I would be honored, your Majesty," she replied in kind and accepted his offered hand. Thranduil drew her into the swirling array of dancers, and Narylfiel felt like the room might just have tipped over with her in it. She tried to remind herself that this was the same elf who she considered one of her closest confidantes, her friend._

_She tried to remind herself that this was Thranduil Oropherion, her king. But in that moment, none of it mattered. He held her in his arms, his strong hands on her waist, on her back. She blushed—just no amount of will power could keep the slow rise of heat from flooding her cheeks._

_If Thranduil noticed, and surely he had, he made no mention of it. He complimented her on how well everything had turned out and how glad he was that they decided to go with the roast boar instead of pressed pheasant for dinner._

_As their dance drew to a close, he angled his head as he looked at her. "You look very beautiful tonight, Narylfiel." he told her in a conspiratorial whisper. "I have seen many a young elf's eye turn your way while we were dancing."_

_As he had done in the past, he pressed a chaste kiss to the top of her head. After the king excused himself, Narylfiel slipped back to her seat, her mind replaying the dance, the feel of his arms, his warmth. Her thoughts wandered to what it would be like if he kissed her, really kissed her. Her head swam at the very idea, or was it from the wine?_

_Narylfiel remembered the sprig of mistletoe hanging in the archway outside the banquet hall. She had talked the king into hanging some up as a mischievous surprise for couples and would-be couples. Could she lure Thranduil underneath it tonight? The king had left the banquet hall only a moment ago. Before Narylfiel could talk her self out of the foolish notion, which she surely would have done if perhaps she had not drank that fourth or even fifth glass of wine, she hopped up from her seat and cut straight across the dance floor for the large entrance to the room._

_She did not get any farther than the doorway. She didn't need to—because from the entrance, she could spy the archway and the mistletoe._

_The sight from the door shocked her. A couple already monopolized the mistletoe, and there was no mistaking that tall head of golden hair, not to mention the tell-tale spiky crown. A dark-headed elleth had Thranduil wrapped in a passionate embrace._

_Narylfiel stood there for a second stunned into a disbelieving stupor by the horrid scene before her. Then her eyes blurred, and she fled the Yule Feast for the sanctuary of her own room. The next morning brought a bright new layer of snow to the Woodland Realm and a coolly determined young elleth left with the Forest Guard for the southern border. She did not return to the King's halls for a very long time._

* * *

November, 3018

Autumn had hardened into an unseasonably cool fall, and by November, the first heavy snows had already swirled down from the Misty Mountains and blanketed the forest in an unfeeling layer of white. Legolas had not returned yet from Imladris, nor had Thranduil received any word from the prince, save for the first missive saying they had arrived in the valley safely. Now with the cold snap and the onset of early snow, the king had all but resigned himself to the fact that Legolas might not return home until Spring, when the passes thawed in the mountains.

The one bright spot in all of this, Thranduil mused, was Narylfiel. She had made good on her pledge to help him in the palace, and so far, had been markedly adept at helping Galadhor, the chief of staff, to organize and plan for a possible siege.

Thranduil had just finished an hour of hearing supplicants in the throne room, and so Narylfiel had walked with him back to the royal wing of the palace. She had plans to increase the reserve guards' training hours in preparation for an attack—"they need more combat training, King Thranduil, especially if our defenses do not hold," she concluded. Narylfiel was always very careful to address him formally when in public areas of the palace.

"I agree," Thranduil said thoughtfully. "The members of the Royal Guard could adjust their schedule to work in some training hours with our reserve members."

Narylfiel nodded, pleased that he consented to her plan so easily.

"Narylfiel," the king began, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, "Yule will be here before we know it. In spite of our current _difficulties_ ," he said with a frown and then continued, "I still would like to have the Yule Celebration."

Now it was Narylfiel's turn to frown. She would never openly disagree with the king in public. Privately, on the other hand, was a completely different matter. She said nothing, and as she and the king turned the corner into their wing of the palace, he gestured toward the sitting room and then pulled the door shut.

"I did not relish the thought of returning to my study for today," he explained as he pulled off his ornate outer robe and after thinking about it for a moment, pulled his crown off and dropped it on top of the robe. "We have spent too much time in there lately."

"I could ask Galion to bring some tea," suggested Narylfiel.

"No, no tea," disagreed the king. He strode over to the long side table against the back wall of the room. After a bit of looking, he selected a dark bottle with a green label. "You know, since your sister redecorated this room, I cannot seem to find anything," he complained half-heartedly as he rifled through a drawer for the corkscrew.

"She loves this room, Thranduil," Narylfiel told him. "It meant much to her that you let her redo it." She wanted to add 'because she knew that Legolas' mother had used the space as her sitting room,' but Narylfiel wisely left those words unsaid. There were some things that she and Thranduil never discussed. She moved next to him, looked for a second, and then handed him the corkscrew.

He took it from her without comment, although she could tell he was the teensiest bit annoyed that she found it so easily before he could. Thranduil opened the bottle with all the ease of one who has opened many, many bottles of wine, and poured them both a glass.

After both of them had settled into their favorite chairs in the room and Thranduil had contentedly poked the fire a few times, he returned to the subject of planning the Yule Celebration. "I would have thought that you would have been more excited about planning another party," the king told her, watching her carefully. "We had such a good time together planning last year's, and everybody seemed to enjoy themselves."

Narylfiel colored ever so slightly, but it was enough that Thranduil noticed. He prided himself on, well, a good deal many things, but being perceptive was one of them.

"What bothers you, Naurenniel?" He drew her nickname out softly, his eyes concerned.

Narylfiel looked away. "I know what you are doing, Thranduil, and it simply won't work," she told him, but her voice belied the confidence of her words. The truth was that Thranduil could always get her talking. He was very persuasive and extremely intuitive—with most things.

"Oh, come now, Narylfiel," coaxed Thranduil. "Did something happen last year at the Yule feast? Why the sudden aversion to it now?"

Narylfiel let out an unpleasant sounding snort and set her glass down. "If you do not know, then I am certainly not going to say," she retorted.

The king leaned forward in his chair and after some thought, reached forward and carefully took her hand in his own warm palm. "I reviewed the ledgers for the patrols, Narylfiel, several months ago—back when you were still guarding the border."

"It does not matter, Thranduil," she told him seriously, memorizing the way her hand felt in his.

"It matters to me," the king said quietly. "You went from being around all the time to never being home—and this sudden change in behavior seemed to coincide with the Yule feast last year?" His blue eyes searched hers.

Curse his persistence, Narylfiel thought miserably and a little angrily too. He could never leave well enough alone.

"Fine," she said at last, "if you _must_ know, it really bothered me when I saw you kissing that elleth under the mistletoe last year. I don't know why—but it just did." Of course, she really did know why, but he did not need to know it.

Thranduil dropped her hand and sat back. He rubbed his temples and tried his best to recall the fuzzy details. He _did_ remember, enough to know that it must have looked like quite a scene. And Narylfiel had seen? "It was done as a joke, Narylfiel," he told her matter-of-factly. "Rubawen pulled me under there. Did you not see both of us laugh about it afterwards?"

"It didn't seem very joke-like from where I was standing," she admitted hotly, the tips of her ears burning.

"Wait—" said Thranduil, his eyes crinkling into amusement. "Are you _jealous?"_

"What? No!" she protested, rolling her eyes. Maybe a little jealous, she thought, okay, a lot, but he did not need to know that either.

If he laughed at her, Narylfiel feared that she really might just commit regicide.

To his credit, Thranduil did not laugh. One look at his friend's drawn little face stifled any notion of doing so at once. Instead, he steepled his fingers and paused, wishing for wisdom in this moment. He took a deep breath and then directly met her eyes. "Is this why you left, Narylfiel?"

"No. Yes. Maybe," she answered, looking away.

An awkward silence blanketed the room, as awkward as any unsaid moment that ever stretched across a room in the Elvenking's halls.

Galion, the king's butler, broke the uneasy quiet by knocking quickly and then rushing into the room.

"This letter just arrived, your majesty. It's from Lord Elrond's messenger pigeons! It must be from Prince Legolas," he exclaimed excitedly.

His heart pounding, Thranduil immediately stood and took the letter, breaking the seal and turning away from the others to read it. Galion silently slipped from the room, and as much as Narylfiel wanted to seize the opportunity to sneak out as well, she just couldn't bring herself to leave. She knew how much Thranduil had longed for a letter, or any news of his son.

Thranduil felt bile rise to his throat within his first glance at the beginning lines...

_'Dear Father,_

_I wanted to write you much earlier, but Lord Elrond insisted that we send no news that might be intercepted by the enemy. I cannot tell you any specifics, but I will shortly be leaving Imladris to help Estel and Gandalf with an important task. I will be gone for some time...'_

He quickly passed the letter off to Narylfiel, who had come to stand by his side as soon as Galion left, as soon as she watched his face visibly pale in a matter of seconds.

"I need a moment," Thranduil said. His usually melodic voice sounded frail, and his hands were shaking as he went back to the side table again and this time poured himself a very stout drink. _Miruvor_. He dropped down on the settee, and Narylfiel took her place beside him. She covered his hand with her own, began to read aloud:

_'Dear Father,_

_I wanted to write you much earlier, but Lord Elrond insisted that we send no news that might be intercepted by the enemy. I cannot tell you any specifics, but I will shortly leave Imladris to help Estel and Gandalf with an important task. I will be gone for some time.'_

Narylfiel stopped and swallowed hard, her voice failing her until the king squeezed her hand. She bit her lip and then continued:

_'I know that you wished for me to return quickly, but please understand that is something I cannot do. There are things in motion, Father, which may rule the fate of us all, and if I can serve a cause that may save the lives of so many whom I hold dear, it is a risk I would take many times over. Thaliniel plans on staying in Elrond's house, for the road back home has grown too dangerous._

_Father, I wished to tell you this in person, but time has run so short, now I fear I may never have the chance. Thaliniel is with child. She and I decided we must try shortly after Elrond's council. She could not bear the thought something happening to me. We both draw comfort in knowing that I would still be with her in some small way.'_

Narylfiel gasped, and tears swam in her eyes. She leaned against Thranduil and choked back a sob. Thranduil took the letter from her hands and finished reading, though the words came to him bitterly:

_'I know that many times in my youth you thought me impulsive, reckless. I hope you can understand now that the road I take, the choices I have made, are the result of many sleepless nights, of tortured deliberation over what is right, over what is selfless. I think of you often, and Thaliniel sends her love to her sister._

_My heart will always belong to Mirkwood, to our people, to my king. I do this for us all._

_Your son,_

_Legolas'_

"This letter sounds like goodbye." Narylfiel's voice was muffled, her cheek pressed into the king's sleeve.

"I cannot—I just…I have nothing. There is nothing I can say," the king concluded, letting the letter drift from his grasp and onto the rug. He stared at the flames on the hearth and wished for some other alternative, or that his cares might drift away, like sparks rising with the smoke up into the night. He thought of the ships at the Grey Havens and distant green shores.

But these thoughts lasted only for the briefest of moments, for the king's eyes beheld his dear friend still by his side. A fierce light burned in her eyes, like she was willing herself not to cry in front of him. This time Thranduil did not think at all but pulled her into his embrace.

They stayed that way until the fire burned down to embers.

Neither noticed the second letter, the one that Galion had dropped in haste by the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: Oh, dear! Elrond better watch himself. When he gets past feeling worried, Thranduil is going. to. be. TICKED. Something to look forward to! So what about that 2nd letter? What could the contents be, and who will find it first?
> 
> Just a little refresher for the fans wondering about our Lord of the Rings Timeline: Council of Elrond meets on October 25. The Fellowship leaves Rivendell on December 25.
> 
> Thranduil would like to thank everybody for the lovely kudos! He is feeling #MoreFabulousThanEver!
> 
> Please comment, Subscribe, and leave Kudos!
> 
> #ElvenKingsNeedLoveToo


	6. Furious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil is not pleased about Legolas' decision to join the Fellowship.

_Three hundred years ago…_

_"I recommend Narylfiel for placement in the Forest Guard, Father," Legolas said and pushed forward his list of candidates for the king's approval._

_Thranduil looked up from his desk, clearly surprised. "I thought you said she would not be ready for placement until next year."_

_"That was last year," Legolas said patiently. "In all fairness, she has become one of our best new recruits. Whatever she lacks in strength, she makes up for in tenacity."_

_The king reached for his royal seal and a stick of dark green sealing wax. He would mark each commission thus, recognizing and honoring the new warrior's commitment to serve the kingdom. He marked the first four without a second thought, but when he reached Narylfiel's, his hand faltered._

_He sat the seal down while Legolas eyed his hesitance with a certain degree of impatience. Thranduil neatly placed her commission to the side while he finished stamping the others. Once finished, he slid hers before him again but did not move to pick up the sealing wax. Instead, he rolled the seal back and forth in his open palm and asked his son, "Legolas, is she truly ready to serve?"_

_"I would never have recommended her service if she had not been up to the task," said the prince with an aggrieved look._

_"I trust your judgment, of course, son," the king said, but he made no motion to pick up the seal. After a thoughtful pause, he added, "Narylfiel is still very young, impetuous."_

_"Father, do not—" Legolas stopped himself and tried a different approach. "I know that you care about her deeply. We all do. Thaliniel has her own doubts as well, but we both believe that Narylfiel should have the opportunity to prove herself."_

_Thranduil nodded reluctantly. "I know she is capable. I have watched her on the practice field myself, yet I find myself hesitant to let her go in harm's way."_

_Softly smiling, Legolas rolled the sealing wax to his father. "If you remember, you were the same way with me."_

_"I cannot help but want to protect those that I love," acknowledged Thranduil, his eyes unapologetic. He knew he tended to be over-protective, especially with Legolas. He had kept his own son from joining the guard for four hundred years, and that respite had only ended after Legolas ran away from home, coincidentally meeting Thaliniel, and of course, her sister._

_"Narylfiel is extremely fortunate to have the king of the Woodland Realm looking out for her best interests," Legolas pointed out, "even if she may not always see it that way."_

_The king met his son's eyes and smiled wryly. They both knew Legolas spoke of himself._

_Thranduil took the sealing wax, heated the stick over the candle on his desk and dripped the wax onto the parchment. He quickly pressed his royal seal into the wax, before he could think better of it._

_"Keep her close, son. Keep her safe," advised Thranduil, and Legolas nodded his agreement and then left with the commissions to be awarded in the induction and oath ceremonies to take place later that week._

_With Legolas gone, Thranduil's smile faded. He could not imagine how dull the palace would become when she eventually left. Over the years, he had become accustomed to her bright smile teasing him not to take himself too seriously, her sense of fun and humor—her companionship._

_"She makes me feel young again," Thranduil realized aloud, to no one but himself. Then he rose from his desk, poured himself a very full glass of a particularly dark red wine, and left his study, taking the wine with him on the way. He would go to the shooting range and work out some of his frustration. Yes, that was the very thing!_

_And if a certain young Forest Guard initiate happened to be there, well, that was just a happy coincidence._

* * *

November, 3018

Thranduil had left a long time ago, and even though Narylfiel had assured him she was on her way to bed, she felt too empty and useless to do anything. After she watched him go, Narylfiel did not have the energy to leave, so she stayed on the settee, staring at the cold remnants of coals on the hearth. She curled up on one end; she could still smell his lingering scent on the cushions, on her own clothes. She squeezed her eyes shut. She would find no rest here, no rest in these early hours of the dawn.

What was she doing? What was she doing with him? Torturing herself, Narylfiel mused, and why did she ever say anything to him about the Yule kiss? She shook her head at herself and walked numbly toward the door when her eyes spied a scrap of parchment by the door.

It was a note, one from Lord Elrond, asking that Thranduil send a messenger to deliver the enclosed letter to Dain of Erebor. Without thinking, Narylfiel scanned the contents of the letter; Elrond was sure that Sauron planned to move his forces in Dol Guldur to take control of the Rhovanion. Thranduil needed to act quickly to rally the forces between elves, men, and dwarves; they would need a strong alliance to stem Sauron's forces in the East.

Narylfiel's hand shook as she held the note—the king must have missed it, or dropped it in his haste to read Legolas' letter. From what she gathered in Elrond's message to the king, an attack was imminent. War was coming.

As she stood there sort of half-trembling from the realization that they had been right about the orcs attacking and the certainty of war, Thranduil breezed in through the doorway, giving her a sharp look.

"Narylfiel, I thought you said you were going to bed," he said sternly. He purposefully headed toward the chair where he had left his robe and crown and picked them up, folding the robe over his arm. He gently placed the crown back on his head as though it pained him to do so.

"I was on my way," Narylfiel protested weakly, "but then I found this letter from Elrond for you by the door."

Thranduil became very still, and for some instinctual reason, Narylfiel's hair rose on the back of her neck.

"Elrond…" Thranduil repeated quietly. He pursed his lips.

Now, Narylfiel always knew the Elvenking had a horrible temper, one of legend in other elven realms. Most times, he did a remarkable job of maintaining an affable, pleasant demeanor, and in spite of some very difficult circumstances too! But every once in a while, she had been privy to seeing Thranduil lose his temper, and the resulting tumult had been intimidating, frightening.

So when Thranduil pounced on the letter and tore it from her hands, Narylfiel let him have it.

Eyes flashing, the king then read the note, right before he crumpled it up and shot it into the fireplace.

"Thranduil!" Narylfiel exclaimed. "It seemed like Elrond—"

He turned on her. "Do not speak his name to me! That so-called Lord of Imladris, who thinks he can impose himself on me, on my kingdom, on my only son and heir?"

"I can understand that you are upset with him," Narylfiel began soothingly, "but his concerns seemed valid, Thranduil!"

"His concerns!" scoffed the king, crossing his arms and scowling. "I care not for _his concerns_. He is a meddlesome interloper, always has been! He would use my kingdom, our people, as a shield to protect his precious Imladris."

"But Thranduil—all those people in Dale, in Erebor! Should we not warn them?"

"I have risked enough of my blood on Elrond's foolish schemes and errands," he retorted.

Now, here is a fine example of how it is never good to try and talk logic to someone who has lost all sense and decency to anger and frustration. At this point, Narylfiel should have just left Thranduil alone and walked away. She would have had much better fortune convincing him of her point after he had a chance to cool his temper.

Unfortunately, Narylfiel did not leave the room. Instead, she steeled her gaze at him and said resolutely, "I will deliver the message, Thranduil. Send me."

The king narrowed his eyes at her. "I would not send you, Narylfiel, not if you were the last guard in Mirkwood."

She huffed indignantly. "I am one of the better and lighter riders in your stable, _your highness._ You have said so yourself!"

"That is immaterial at the moment, because no rider is leaving these halls," the elvenking snapped at her. "Do not argue with me, Narylfiel," he warned her.

"Someone must," she declared firmly. "You are just being stubborn about Elrond! Why will you not see reason?"

"You are still my subject, Narylfiel," he reminded her, scathingly. "And right now you are acting like a petulant child. You know nothing of the politics between my kingdom and Elrond's."

"I would rather be considered a child than one so ancient that he has lost touch with the living world around him, _Your Majesty_!" she fired back, incensed. "You are worse than the dwarves—hiding out in your palace, caring for no one's troubles save your own."

Thranduil's eyes widened at the insult, and somehow Narylfiel let her own temper get the better of her. All the times he had hurt her, unintentionally or not, tore in her heart like a reopened wound. She just could not stop herself.

"At least Legolas has integrity! At least he cares enough about others to try and help!" she added, the horrid words pouring from her lips before she could stop herself.

The king's mouth opened and for a second, she could see the full measure of hurt in his eyes, but that was only for a moment. He drew himself up and pointed a regal finger at her. " _You_ are not going anywhere. _You_ will never go. _You_ can stay here until you…grow up!"

"I—I cannot stay here with you anymore," she cried, angrily throwing her hands up. "I cannot take being around you another day!"

Thranduil took two steps toward her and leaned in, eyes glinting dangerously. "Why, Narylfiel? I thought you longed for my company and were even jealous of my kisses."

She flinched, backed away from him, hissed, "Don't flatter yourself. I would sooner kiss an orc."

An indefinable muscle ticked in his jaw. "That can be arranged," he seethed.

For the first time in their argument, her eyes began to glisten. He gave her one long look and then swept haughtily from the room.

"I hate him," she muttered, just to herself. Then she cut her eyes to the fireplace where Thranduil had chucked Elrond's letter. Narylfiel drew a quick breath to steady herself, and then she knelt down at the hearth and pulled the parchment from the cold ashes. She dusted off her fingers on her clothes and stared at the letter in her hand.

She would deliver the message herself, regardless of the consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: Ouch. I'll admit that fight hurt a little to have to write. As always, I would love to hear your comments! Please Review, Favorite, and Follow!
> 
> Is anyone ready to take sides in the Thranduil vs. Narylfiel argument? The Elvenking is not used to having someone actually argue back...
> 
> Thranduil: #ElvenKingIsAlwaysRight


	7. Abandoned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil makes an unfortunate discovery...

_Three Hundred Years ago…_

_She had left before dawn with Legolas, for he had promised to teach her how to track in the forest. Now it was well past midday, and the pair of them perched high in a beech tree, their lithe legs dangling from the branches as they shared a snack of apples and cheese that Narylfiel had thought to sneak away from the kitchens._

" _Tell me, Legolas," she said after a bite. "Tell me what your mother was like." She was not afraid to ask Legolas about Thranduil's long missing wife. It was a sensitive topic, to be sure, but Legolas had become a friend, an ally, a mentor even. They had bonded over archery practice and knife work. He teased her good-naturedly like she thought an older brother might._

_Legolas' bright blue eyes widened, and he almost dropped the apple that he was trying to peel in one long twisting peel. She had caught him off-guard with the question, not that he minded. He had spoken of his mother to Thaliniel and was honestly surprised the topic had not come up before with Narylfiel until now._

" _What do you want to know?" he asked her, trying to read her a little from the corner of his eye._

" _What was she like? What did she do?" was Narylfiel's automatic response, although the much desired 'Why did she leave?' stuck in her throat, unsaid._

_Legolas sliced off a bit of apple and popped it into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully. "She was very beautiful. She had silvery fair hair and grey eyes; her father had been an advisor to my grandfather. Both their fathers had encouraged the match in the years before the Battle of Dagorlad. Oropher wanted to see his son settled down. Thranduil, of course, complied with his father's wishes."_

_Narylfiel snorted. "I have a hard time believing that," she said. The Elvenking struck her as anything but compliant._

_Legolas grinned. "So do I, but that's how he tells it."_

_She shook her head disbelievingly and took the slice of apple he offered her._

" _My mother loved music; she loved to sing. She played the harp," Legolas told her, looking at the peeled apple in his hand, taking another careful slice. "She liked to sew and embroider." He lifted his eyes to meet hers._

" _Those…those are nice hobbies," Narylfiel suggested pleasantly. "Very courtly," she added for good measure._

_The prince crooked an eyebrow at her. "Elarien," he said of the queen, not bothering to call her 'mother,' "she and my father had very little in common."_

" _I didn't know," Narylfiel admitted quietly._

" _Even so," Legolas continued, taking the last piece of apple and splitting it with his companion, "her leaving the Greenwood devastated my father. I think he took it as a personal failure. You know how he is."_

_She did know. She nodded sadly and reached for his hand. "I am sorry, Legolas." And she was equally sorry for Thranduil, whom she knew had a sensitive heart hidden beneath his kingly glamour._

_He patted her hand and then smiled wryly. "He is happier now than I have seen him in many years, Narylfiel, since you and your sister have joined our family. Just don't try and leave," he joked. "You know how upset he gets when I even mention the idea of trying to go somewhere!"_

" _I won't, Legolas," she told him seriously, gazing with rapt eyes at the forest canopy before her. "Why would anybody ever want to leave all this?"_

* * *

November, 3018:

The cheerful tinkle of china and soft murmuring voices abruptly halted when a stormy-eyed King Thranduil thundered into the dining room for breakfast. He offered no greetings and reservedly took his seat at the head table, declining Galion's offer to make him a plate. He bypassed his usual favorite confections in favor of some bland herbal tea.

Thranduil had a horrid headache, the sort born from a sleepless, wretched night when the morning did not seem to promise any improvement. In truth, the king had been more than a little upset about his disagreement with Narylfiel last night. At first he had been bitterly angry over her complete lack of respect for his title and having the temerity to argue with him in the first place. How dare she!

But as the hours passed, several hours in which no amount of wine seemed to help his roiling stomach and tightly wound nerves, Thranduil reflected that perhaps he deserved the full measure of her censure. He had taken his anger at Elrond out on her, which had been completely unjustified.

He stopped his butler as he passed by with a tray, "Galion, has Narylfiel already attended breakfast?"

"No, King Thranduil. I have not seen her this morning," Galion answered with a frown.

It was not like Narylfiel to miss breakfast ever. She was avoiding him. Probably pouting in her room this very moment, Thranduil decided. Still… As he sipped his tea and remembered their fight, Thranduil regretted his actions, his words.

He had let his temper completely run away with him. Her words had wounded him, so he had belittled her, mocked her.

He would not blame her if she despised him. He despised himself. He squashed down the mental image of her eyes and long lashes wet with unshed tears and pushed his teacup away. Beyond any considerations of who was right or wrong about Elrond's blasted letter, he should never have spoken to her so cruelly. Even if she had acted wrongly, he was the king, and as such should have acted more wisely.

Thranduil stopped Galion again a few minutes later. "Did she call for a tray from the kitchen?'

"I don't believe so, your majesty, but I will inquire directly," Galion answered and went to the kitchens. He returned only moments later after having spoken with the cook and baker, neither of whom had seen Narylfiel that morning.

Thranduil stood, not sure why he had come down to the dining room in the first place. His appetite was nonexistent. Perhaps Narylfiel had skipped breakfast for the same reason. Even if she did not want to see him, he thought he would check on her to make sure she was well.

First he looked for her on the archery range, remembering all the times he had found her practicing her aim on the cross-field targets, but Narylfiel was not there. Next he peeked into the sitting room where they had their fight last night, nor was she there. The fire and sconces were still unlit. His eyes lingered on the hearth for a second. With a sharp intake of breath, he realized that Elrond's letter was no longer interred in the fireplace, where he had disposed of it last night. Thranduil quickly crossed the room, his eyes scanning the fireplace, the burnt down logs, ashes. He leaned in closer. The letter was gone.

Thranduil's head gave one painful throb as he stood back up. He swallowed hard, glancing around the room. He expressly forbade her leaving. She wouldn't have, would she?

Thranduil took two steps toward the door and stopped. He recalled with perfect memory the fervid disgust on her face as she had vehemently declared that she would sooner 'kiss an orc.'

Oh, Valar, he thought and reached for the back of the nearest chair to steady himself. She left. She took that letter and left.

Thranduil gripped the edge of the chair as his heart plummeted and then painfully squeezed itself into a thousand tiny knots. In the next moment he dashed from the sitting room down the hall to Narylfiel's chambers.

He pounded on the door with four swift knocks. Then without waiting any further, he swung the door open. The room was dark, again the fire and sconces unlit. Her bed was neatly made, unslept in, undisturbed. Thranduil paused for a moment at the threshold, weighing his next move, waiting, and then he charged in, pulling open her armoire to see if her traveling clothes were there, checking her cabinet for her weapons' case. Empty. Her knives—weapons he had given her!—were gone. Her bow and quiver, missing.

Thranduil pressed his hand to his head, reeling from a poisonous combination of all the wrong sort of feelings—despair, worry, rage. He desperately cast his eyes around the room one more time. The ring he gave her years ago for her name day celebration gleamed on her dresser. She never took that ring off, unless going on guard duty. Thranduil strode over to the dresser, picked it up, held it cool and tiny in his hand, and then pocketed it. He could not have said why, but it was hers, something of hers that he had given her.

Then his eye caught on her old, tattered stuffed rabbit sitting on the mantle piece; the animal was one of her few possessions that she had brought with her as a child when she had come to live in the palace. She was so young. How many times had he seen her cart that ratty thing around? But even then, she had defended that rabbit's presence to him when he had pointed out its shortcomings and even offered to replace it. She had never been cowed by him, had never been intimidated by his crown.

She was so dear to him.

With a disbelieving shake of his head, Thranduil backed out of her room and headed to his study, where he was sure that a glass of wine might just be the thing to rinse the horrible taste out of his mouth. On his way there, he made two decisions: first, that he would send some guards to track her and hopefully bring her back, and second, that Narylfiel would have to deal with the natural consequences of her actions. He cannot show favoritism if she willfully broke his commands.

The king had just sorted out an appropriate vintage and glass when Beriadan entered the study.

"Ah, Captain," the king addressed him, "perfect timing. I was just about to call for you."

"Then you have heard already?" Beriadan replied, his expression puzzled.

"Heard what?" countered the elven king, setting down the bottle to give the Captain of the Forest Guard his full attention.

"Orcs broke through the southeastern edge last night and may be skirting around the outer edge of the forest toward Dale," Beriadan informed him. He approached the large map on the king's desk and drew a line with his finger, explaining the direction of their path. "With our losses on the southern border, we could not eliminate the entire group, your Majesty."

His dread redoubling, Thranduil eyed the map. The suggested route of the orcs led straight to Dale, and straight to Erebor, right where Narylfiel undoubtedly planned on going.

The king met Beriadan's eyes and cleared his throat. "Narylfiel left last night," he said and clarified, "to deliver a message to Dale."

Beriadan's eyes widened. "She will be caught right in their path, with no warning!"

The king's mouth tightened into a worried line. "She must be warned, Captain."

"I will send our fastest rider, but if she had a head start, there will be little chance of catching her! Not if she took the eastern path," Beriadan said and motioned for the guards at the door to enter.

Thranduil dropped his head at the futility of the situation and stared at the map of his realm. In the background, he could hear Beriadan giving orders to the guards. He half-listened and traced the dark line of the eastern path with his thumb. As king, he knew the forest, its paths and woods, like no other, save perhaps his son.

"No, wait," Thranduil held up his hand, interrupting Beriadan's directions to the guards. He looked up at his Captain, and the king's eyes were dangerous. "I will go. I can ride Taurion and cut through the corner of the forest, head her off." He snapped out an order to one of the guards to hurry to the stable and ready the great elk. Then he quit the study, moving quickly toward his chambers, leaving Beriadan to hurry behind him.

"But, your Majesty!" objected Beriadan weakly. "Could I not go in your place?"

The king stopped mid-stride and gave his Captain an impatient look. "I appreciate your concern, Beriadan, but you know very well that Taurion will not consent to anybody riding him except myself. "I will find Narylfiel. I will bring her back."

Beriadan frowned. "At least let me send a contingent of Royal Guards behind you," he bargained. The king's safety was his upmost responsibility!

"Agreed," said Thranduil. He moved with a focused intensity into his chambers and very quickly changed into traveling clothes, his well-worn riding boots, and a dark green cloak. Galion appeared with a travel bag, for Beriadan must have informed him of the king's purpose.

He cast his crown onto his bed without a second glance. Minutes later Thranduil had gathered his own weapons, a peerless knife at his belt and his sword. He picked up his bow and quiver from Galion on his way out the door.

Only a few subjects saw their elven king leave the palace that day. His face was cold and resolute, deadly. He reached the stables and only after whispering softly in the ear of his old friend, Thranduil mounted the elk and charged out of the stables in a blur of brown fur and antlers.

Taurion and Thranduil plunged into the shadows, both pairs of their keen eyes adjusting to the low light, and the elk's feet were sure and nimble. Thranduil pulled up the hood of his cloak to hide his bright hair in the dim of the woods. Before they left the royal stables, he had asked, and Taurion had quietly agreed; they would not stop until they found Narylfiel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: Alright! *rubs hands together eagerly* Finally, I've got the pair of them out of the palace and into the wild. Who's ready for adventure and some serious peril?! With maybe a dash of orcs?
> 
> And you know I just had to get Thranduil on the elk.
> 
> #AllAboardThePartyElk
> 
> Thranduil: #SizeDoesMatter
> 
> Legolas: He means the elk! Right, dad? Right?!
> 
> Thranduil: *winks*
> 
> Please help give Kingsfoil a STATS BOOST- Kudos, Comment, Subscribe! *Hugs!*


	8. Stricken

_Two hundred years ago…_

_Narylfiel raced across the bridge, not even bothering to dismount before the massive gates of the palace, but she had a good reason for her haste._

" _Quickly open the doors!" she cried to the guards. "Prince Legolas has been wounded!"_

_The elf in question leaned against her sickly, his face a drawn shade of grey. Later, Narylfiel confessed that she would never know how she had managed to hold onto him long enough to make it back to the palace._

_The guards swung open the heavy doors, and Narylfiel thundered into the palace, still hanging onto the prince, on her horse. "Get the king!" she called out._

_The injury had started innocently enough, a shallow cut on the prince's side from an orc ambush, but Narylfiel was almost certain that the blade had been poisoned. In the two days' ride from their post to the palace, Legolas had become disoriented, nauseous, and then finally incoherent._

_More guards appeared in seconds and helped both elves down from the horse. They quickly placed the prince on a litter and rushed him to the Healing Ward. Narylfiel caught sight of Galadhor and shouted to him, "Send for Thaliniel!" She could not bring herself to say that Legolas might be dying. He had survived worse injuries. He could survive this._

_Thranduil met them in the healing room. He had already dispensed with his royal robes and crown and hurriedly rolled up his sleeves. He motioned for the healers to bring forth a steaming, fragrant bowl. Athelas._

_The king deftly cut away the fabric from his son's injury, and taking a fresh strip of linen, began to clean around the darkly puckered cut._

" _Oh, Legolas," he murmured, reaching into the bowl for some of the silvery herbs. He squeezed out the extra water and then began to make a poultice to pack into the wound._

_Narylfiel watched, transfixed. She knew that the healers occasionally called upon Thranduil to consult with him about certain, dire cases, but this was a side of the king she had never before seen. He was so tender with his son, so gentle._

_Legolas moaned briefly as the king placed the poultice onto the wound and began to chant. His voice soft and stirring, Thranduil invoked the Valar, he called out to Legolas' fëa, he spoke words of healing and peace._

_Hoping she would not be asked to leave, Narylfiel pressed herself against the wall nearest the door, trying to make herself invisible; she could not look away, not from Thranduil, not from Legolas, fighting for his life. She knew that Thranduil was a powerful elf lord, she had seen him become death on the battlefield to every enemy in his path, but this—this was an unknown to her, a magic so deep and real, the power of a true king to heal those he loved most. So it was that when Thaliniel finally hurried breathlessly into the room, Narylfiel caught her in her arms; tears streamed down the cheeks of the younger elleth's face._

_Thaliniel's eyes automatically went to the prone figure on the raised bed in the room. "Is he? Is he…?" She could not bring herself to put words to the fear in her heart._

_Narylfiel hugged her all the tighter. "No, Thaliniel. No!" she exclaimed, trying to smile through her tears. "He is going to be all right. Thranduil brought him back. Legolas is going to live."_

_Thranduil turned from his son at the sound of their voices and guided Thaliniel to the bedside. "He rests now, but it would be best if you were here when he wakes," he said tiredly, pushing an unsteady hand through his hair._

_Narylfiel concernedly reached for the king's shoulder as she followed him out of the room. "What about you?" she asked quietly. "You seem exhausted."_

_He half-laughed. "So I am, a little," he confessed. "That sort of healing…" his voice trailed away as his eyes glanced back through the doorway at his son, Thaliniel now by his side holding one of his hands and brushing the hair from the prince's forehead._

_Later that evening only after Narylfiel convinced Thranduil to go down to the kitchens with her for some much-needed sustenance, they sat ensconced in a tiny little table tucked snugly away in the corner by the stove. Finding himself suddenly ravenous, Thranduil wolfed down a pot pie and two glasses of milk as he tried to find words for how he had healed Legolas. That sort of healing, he explained, physically drained the healer because he had to search out the injured person's fëa and forge enough of a bond that he could use some of his own energy and strength to help draw out the poison. It was exhausting. Legolas had actually been an easier case, because he already shared a parent bond with him._

" _But if you hadn't shared a bond with him?" Narylfiel asked._

_Thranduil set down his fork. "It would have been much more difficult, and afterwards—the bond lingers. I can feel what they're feeling, and at worse it can be very painful, or at best, awkward."_

" _You have a strong bond with Legolas. I can tell," she said._

" _Oh, I don't know, Narylfiel," Thranduil said amusedly, his mouth curving into a smile. "I know you've always claimed a sense about these things, but…it seems pretty far-fetched." Sometimes he just liked to rile her up a little, just to see her reaction._

" _I can tell," she repeated herself emphatically. "What about all those matches I have made?" she protested, beginning to sound indignant._

" _Oh, I will agree you have made more than your fair share of matches over the years," he conceded and then added, his eyes twinkling, "but that could be attributed to lucky guesses."_

_She gazed at him seriously, and the king could tell she was thinking. Then she smiled triumphantly and asked him, "How do you know that tunic goes with those pants or your robe for that matter?"_

_The king glanced at what he was wearing. "The colors coordinate," he answered breezily._

" _Yes, but how do you know which colors coordinate? How can you tell what goes with what, or what combination looks nice together?" Narylfiel clarified._

" _Oh," he solemnly answered, rather enjoying her earnest expression. He adopted a wounded look. "Are you trying to tell me that my clothes do not match?"_

_She punched him the arm. "Thranduil! You know that you always look impeccable. What I meant was that just like you can tell which fabrics and colors go well together, I can tell the same thing about people, about whom would pair well."_

_They spent the rest of the evening discussing new possible couples that they could arrange, and Narylfiel was happy to take the king's mind off of Legolas' injury._

_Narylfiel never mentioned what she had observed about the king himself. Thranduil's bond with Legolas was the only one she sensed the king had. His fëa held only traces of a marriage bond, a lingering remnant, a scar._

_What had happened to him?_

* * *

November, 3018:

The eastern paths from the Elven King's halls were not what they once were, mused Narylfiel, as she and her horse expertly navigated their way along the often leaf-covered stones. The air was so close, so thick. She could tell it was going to snow again, and soon. At least the overhead foliage provided enough cover that her path remained relatively dry. For now.

Despite her grim surroundings, Narylfiel relished being out in the woods again, free from her king's halls once more. She had tried her best not to think too much about their fight from last night, or of Thranduil, the inconsiderate…jerk.

And that was putting it nicely, in her mind.

Oh, who was she fooling? Certainly, not herself. She actually felt badly for him. Even if he had been horrible, she still cared about him, and she should never had attacked his personal character.

He just made her so angry.

Still…

There were no excuses for how she had spoken to him that night, whether he deserved it or not. She would have to apologize to him when she returned. He would probably toss her in the dungeons. She wondered if the king had discovered her absence yet. Perhaps she would be better off trying to stay with the dwarves, if they would let her. Narylfiel tried to imagine herself making friends with dwarves and fitting right in and ended up laughing out loud.

The peal of her laughter echoed through the still trees, and somewhere, out of sight, a few crows cawed and swooped down from their branches. So much for stealth. She patted her horse and refocused her attention on the path. She had made good time so far, and…

A distant howl interrupted her thoughts. Her horse nervously pricked his ears.

Wolves, she thought. Although they usually did not venture this far east; they feared the woodsmen from Dale. The wolves posed no real threat to her.

The tenor of the last howl did not ring true.

Her horse skittered, and Narylfiel's head snapped toward the sound of a third howl, closer than before. She could not see as far in the gloom of the forest, but something was out there.

And that something was most definitely _not_ a wolf.

Now, what Narylfiel would have really liked do would have been to turn her horse around and directly investigate those mysterious howls, but instead she remembered the letter tucked into her vest and kept on the path. She whispered to her horse that they needed to move much, much more quickly.

She had a horrible hunch that those howls had belonged to wargs.

She tightly gripped her horse with her legs as they flew down the path while her hands busily checked her weapons and restrung her bow. She would not be caught off-guard. Still Narylfiel wanted to gain as much distance toward Dale as she could.

Her eyes darted toward the left as she heard the close crack of a branch. Impossible, she thought. There was no way that those beasts could have gained so much ground and so quickly. Unless, and here is the moment in her journey that Narylfiel first regretted leaving the Elvenking's halls, unless those foul creatures had been tracking her all along.

She was being hunted.

Narylfiel leaned closer to her horse and kept her eyes scanning the foliage all around her. If she rode into a trap, she at least wanted to be prepared.

Sooner than expected, she heard the sound of heavy footfalls following her. She gripped her bow tightly and then right as she neared a bend in the path, she swung around in her saddle and expertly fired an arrow toward the enormous warg gaining behind her.

She never saw the second warg coming. The foul beast had been hiding just around the corner, where a large outcropping of thorny bushes obscured the turn of the path. The warg slammed into her horse.

Narylfiel's head snapped back from the impact, and she lost her balance and tumbled over the side. She rolled to break the impact and with her next move she pulled two more arrows and nocked them, ready to fire. In the split second that the two arrows sped toward her enemies, Narylfiel sprang up. One of the arrows had struck the first warg cleanly through the eye, and she had wounded the other one.

Her sharp brown eyes hunted for her horse, but he must have reared and bolted. With hungry wargs on the prowl, she could hardly blame him, only now she was stranded. Just as she reminded herself that it could have been worse, at least six dark shapes emerged from the shadows. Orcs. A shudder crawled down her spine.

"What do we have here, boys?" one of them crowed.

Narylfiel did not wait to hear their response. She sprinted in the opposite direction, leaving the protection of the path and heading toward the deepest gloom of the woods.

As she ran for her life, leaping across over-turned logs and ducking low hanging branches, her eyes busily searched the area for any potential ground where she could surprise her enemies. She briefly contemplated climbing up one of the trees but worried about spiders and getting surrounded. No, her best bet was to stay on the ground and hopefully pick her enemies off one by one.

"Spread out! Find the she-elf!" She heard the orcs' shouting behind her. The discordant sound of two more howls meant more wargs. With their fine sense of smell, they would be much more difficult to elude, but Narylfiel could not afford to give up. She had to try. She kept on in the opposite direction, hoping at one point she could circle back to the path and find her horse.

Her heart drumming in her chest, Narylfiel flattened herself against a lichen-crusted trunk, just as an orc, dark and filthy, crashed past her. Knife drawn, she stealthily peeled herself away from her hiding place and crept up behind him. Without hesitation, she slit his throat in one quick, lethal motion. The body sank to the forest floor with a throaty gurgle.

One down, Narylfiel thought, pleased with her success.

"You'll pay for that!" a voice growled behind her, and before she could whip around, a rough claw wrapped around her arm and forcefully yanked her back.

Instinct took over.

Narylfiel lashed out with her knife, finding purchase in her attacker's side. She leveraged his grip on her arm to pull him toward her and then swung her own weight out to snap his arm. The orc broke free, cradling his ruined limb, and bared his teeth.

And he lunged for her, with all the force of a battering ram, colliding into her, tackling her to the ground, and knocking one of her knives from her hand. The other knife she kept and raked the blade across his chest as they tumbled in a blur of blood and flesh into the brambles of the forest floor. Narylfiel hit the ground hard, her breath knocked from her. Then just as quickly, she remembered her attacker and rolled over to push herself up from the ground. Her hands and the hilt of her knife were slick and dark with blood.

She heard a whine to her right side; it was the orc. His face a twisted mask of pain and misery, he thrashed to try and get to her, but a sharp branch had impaled his upper thigh. Narylfiel staggered toward him and drove her knife into his chest.

She exhaled, wiped the blood from her hands.

But all the commotion had alerted the others, and the poor elf found herself backing away from the snarling maws of two wargs. She had never seen one alive so close before, and the rancid breath and the wicked glint in their eyes was not something she would easily forget.

Staggering backwards, Narylfiel tripped over a root in the process and landed hard on her backside. She scrambled to her feet and backed right into another one of the orcs, their burly leader, who took no time in pressing the sharp tip of his blade into her side.

"Go on and move, elf," he dared her with a cruel sort of glee. "We'll see how far you can run with my blade through your gut."

Swallowing a scream, Narylfiel stiffened as he started to gouge the knife into her abdomen. The tip of the blade already burned like a flame carving through her flesh. She twisted in his grip, but he only growled and pressed the blade in further. His eyes glittered evilly. Then she watched in disbelief as her captor's arrogant expression melted away into one of fear and loathing.

An enormous elk, a Giant Elk, bounded into view, his antlers charging into the first warg. Spearing its side with brutal precision, the elk bowled over the warg, sending it shrieking into the brush.

Thranduil had come.

Narylfiel could scarcely believe her eyes, but there he was. Golden and deadly, with his eyes blazing and sword drawn, Thranduil rode upon Taurion, and together, they decimated the remaining orcs and wargs. The foul creatures were no match for the brute strength of the Giant Elk, whose razor-sharp antler points tore through his enemies, flinging them out of his path as Thranduil cut down the remaining foes with his sword.

In the confusion, Narylfiel broke free from the orc's embrace and stumbled away, scooping up her fallen weapons. She pressed her free hand to her side, pulling her vest over the worst of her wound, which still throbbed painfully. Even so, she could scarcely stop watching her king as he and Taurion plowed through the orcs, until none remained standing, save the leader who had held Narylfiel prisoner.

Thranduil stared him down and slid from the elk's side. "You dare enter the realm of the Elvenking?" he asked and slashed his sword through the air. Its curved blade gleamed black with blood and gore.

The orc backed away, his eyes narrowing with malice. "You can tell your king that we are legion and we are coming. All of this forest will burn to the ground," he hissed and vainly attempted to flee deeper into the woods. Taurion easily cut him off, knocking the orc's weapon to the ground with his enormous antlers. When the orc still tried to run, the elk snorted indignantly and prodded the wretched creature forward until he had pinned him to a nearby tree with the sharpest points of his rack. Arms flailing, the orc's feet kicked out uselessly, but Taurion held him there until Thranduil reached his side, sword in hand, and bade the elk to release his prisoner.

The orc slid down the bark into a heap at the ground, glaring up at the elf before him.

" _I_ am the king," Thranduil informed him icily and promptly hacked off the orc's head in one violent arc. "Message received."

Thranduil's shoulders slumped for a second, and then he wiped his sword down, sheathed it, and turned. He wearily surveyed the carnage—gored orc bodies, disemboweled wargs, all the carcasses steaming in the cold afternoon air.

His eyes sharpened as they met Narylfiel's from across the clearing.

Never had she felt so small.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Wooh! Introducing the Debut Performance of THE Party Elk- He's not just a show elk, people! Was the Action too much? Too little? Them fighting scenes be tough, y'all! Let me know! Please leave Kudos, Comment, and Subscribe!
> 
> Thranduil and Narylfiel are going to have a special heart to heart...in the next chapter!
> 
> Thranduil: #IamTheKing
> 
> Narylfiel: #UhOh
> 
> PartyElk: #Can'tWeJustAllGetAlong?


	9. Disciplined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil is NOT happy...

_Three hundred years ago:_

_Her heart thrumming in her chest, Narylfiel practically skipped down the softly lit corridors to the king's study; she knew she hardly looked dignified enough to be a young initiate of the Forest Guard, just beginning her first day of formal training, but she was so excited she could scarcely contain herself. When she reached the lower hanging crossbeams that formed the arch over the next hallway, she stretched her arm out and leaped up to slap the beam; Thaliniel had gotten on to her for that, more than one time, but today Narylfiel felt so exhilarated, so alive! She skidded to a stop in front of Thranduil's rooms and waited for the guards outside the door to let her in. Finally, Elfir nodded, and she cracked open the door and popped her head in._

" _Your Majesty!" she exclaimed, for she would always address him formally in front of others._

_Seated at his enormous carven desk, Thranduil looked up from whatever he was reading and his poet's mouth curved into a laughing smile. "Well, do not linger in the doorway," he chided her, "when I know you are dying to show me!"_

_Narylfiel glided into the room and struck a pose, proudly displaying her new initiate's uniform, right down to the tops of her gleaming boots. "What do you think?" she asked him, her eyes bright and eager._

_Eyebrows furrowed, Thranduil rose from his desk in one liquid movement and circled her, pretending to study her seriously. "Well, you certainly look the part," he said with a grin._

" _I have waited for this day for so long," she confided in him, smoothing out her tunic, "and now that it's here I cannot help but worry that I may not be good enough."_

" _You will," Thranduil assured her. "I will tell you what I told Legolas on his first day of training for the guard, the same thing my father told me: Be disciplined and willing to learn. The captains can teach you the rest, but if you can do those two things, you will always be well thought of."_

_Narylfiel tilted her head and listened to her king's wisdom and clasped her hands. "Disciplined and willing to learn," she repeated back and flashed him a dazzling smile. "I will be the most disciplined and eager to learn guard that my instructors have ever seen!"_

" _I do not doubt it," Thranduil said quietly to himself as she waved enthusiastically and wished him goodbye, promising to come back later and tell him all about her first day of training._

* * *

November, 3018:

Filtered beams of light accented the spaces between the ancient trees that twisted like spires from the undergrowth. Dark leaves littered the forest floor, occasionally dusted with the odd bit of snow that had managed to drift in from the thick canopy overhead. The shadows lengthened, and Thranduil appraised the trail of horrors that he had wrought—orcs, wargs, all dead, gutted, throats hung open—yet he found little reason to rejoice from his role in the devastation. Across the scene of carnage, his eyes landed on Narylfiel. A muscle in his jaw twitched as he stared at her, watched her gulp, felt her fear. His eyes darkened, and he willed himself to slow the pounding of his heart to quiet the surge of fury brought on earlier by seeing her unarmed and captive. He willed himself not to think about what might have been, what might have happened had he arrived only seconds later. Finally, he forced himself to speak and his voice sounded discordant and unsteady to his own ears.

"You…you are not injured then?" he asked uncertainly. Her travel clothes were streaked with orc blood, with the odd bit of dirt and parts of leaves clinging to tunic and hair.

Narylfiel shook her head. "Do I not look the very picture of health?" she joked, attempting to assuage his fears and lighten the mood. She knew she looked wretched and hated for him to see her this way, so broken down and defeated. She most certainly was not telling him about the wound to her side—it was just a trifle, a scratch really—and she did not need him getting more upset.

With a disbelieving look, the king crossed the distance between them and gently lifted her chin with his hand, as if she were incalculably fragile. His full lips stretched into a thin line as his fingers ghosted over the welt on her cheek where one of the orcs had struck her.

He plucked a few errant leaves from her hair, glided his hand down the brown tangled strands.

"Narylfiel." His voice was little more than a whisper as he searched her eyes, as if he needed to persuade himself that she really stood before him, unharmed.

"I am fine," she reassured him. "I was handling it."

"I could tell," he retorted and crossed his arms. His eyes flicked over her again, but he said nothing.

An immeasurable amount of time stretched by, and Narylfiel shifted uncomfortably. This newer, quieter version of Thranduil unsettled her. Why was he so quiet? Why would he not just yell at her and get it over with already?

"Well," she began, "I guess I'll just be on my way then. Not too far from the forest border!" She patted her vest pocket. "This letter will not deliver itself, you know."

She chuckled a little, and Thranduil joined in with her, his warm baritone ringing like chimes through the empty branches. It sounded tinny in the open air, a little too merry, a little too bright to Narylfiel's ears.

"No," he told her flatly. Then he placed a firm hand on her shoulder. "You have acted foolishly, but a fool you are not. Let us hear no more about delivering this letter." He stretched out his hand. "Give it to me."

Narylfiel reluctantly pulled it from her vest and handed it over with an exaggerated sigh. Eyeing the letter like she had just placed a live spider in his open palm, Thranduil picked it up, folded it twice, and stuffed it into his tunic.

"Since you are apparently 'fine' as you so claim, then you can help pile these carcasses to burn," Thranduil told her and gestured to the gruesome trail of bodies behind him. "We will wait here for the Royal Guard to join us. They should be here in a few hours, coming up the forest path. I have already sent your horse back to lead them here."

"Mirima?" Narylfiel enquired about her horse. "You found her then, and she is safe?"

Thranduil nodded once and then pointed to a clear space next to the nearest dead warg. "Let's pile the dead there."

Narylfiel nodded, more than a little frustrated by his lack of communication. It was just so unlike him and frankly unnerving.

Without another word, he went to work, and so did she, dragging the corpses and settling them into a hideous pile. Thranduil motioned for Narylfiel to help him drag one of the wargs.

Wishing for a pair of gloves at this point, she disgustedly picked up one of the paws, while Thranduil hoisted the other side. He gave her a questioning look, and then together they both began to pull the dead beast toward the pile.

Those nasty things were heavy! All this lifting and pulling was not doing Narylfiel's injury any favors either, not that she could mention it to Thranduil now. Her side burned from the exertion.

"I know I should not have left without your permission," Narylfiel told him quietly, straining to move the warg.

Thranduil dropped his side. "You think, Narylfiel?" He pointed around the clearing. "Look at this! Look at them!" Then he dropped his hand and closed his eyes for a second, willing himself to guard his temper.

The king drew a deep breath, and Narylfiel stared and wondered.

Thranduil picked up his side of the warg. "Come. Let's get this one moved."

They left the body next to the pile, for it was much too heavy for them to hoist on their own. Thranduil dropped his side and walked away without a further glance at her. Narylfiel followed him and caught his arm.

"Look, Thranduil. I know I was wrong," she admitted softly and forced herself to meet his eyes. "I should not have gone against your word. I should never have left without your permission."

He drew her hand from his arm, held it while she spoke to him and then released it gently. Thranduil said nothing but looked at her, his expression a mixture of hurt and loss.

A rare breeze teased the ends of his hair across his face. Again, Narylfiel was struck by his beauty—so masculine and strong, but only now he looked utterly devastated.

"Please," she said, hardly believing that she would even consider asking this, "can't you just yell at me already, so we can be done with it?"

Thranduil arched an elegant eyebrow at her request. "Yell at you, Narylfiel? Could I just _yell_ at you?" And although his voice was still so soft, something indefinable seemed to sizzle in the air, hang on his words.

"I do not wish to _yell_ at you," he said, and for the first time since speaking to her, Thranduil's eyes flashed. In vain, he had tried to hold his anger in, not to lash out at her. He grabbed her with a hand on each of her arms, yanking her close. "I want to shake you, shake you until you realize how close you came to being killed today!" he said, his voice growing more like a roar with each word. Despite his claim, he did not shake her but held her tightly.

"Thranduil, I am sorry," she cried, her eyes darting up to his. Of all the times she had dreamed of being in his arms, this was not how she envisioned the moment.

"You're sorry?" he scoffed. His gaze scorched her, and he tightened his grip on her, pulling her in even closer. "I ought to take you over my knee and spank you!"

"Thranduil!" she cried, scandalized.

He shook his head bitterly and held her gaze. "There are some things that 'I'm sorry' cannot fix, Narylfiel, even between friends."

"I know that," she protested, glad to see the familiar fire return to his eyes—even if it was directed at her, "but 'I'm sorry' is all I have at the moment, Thranduil."

"When will you learn that there are consequences to your actions, Narylfiel? Did you even stop to think about how I would feel after finding your room empty, your bed empty?"

Not waiting an answer, Thranduil released her roughly, putting distance between them, his eyes wild.

"Do you think a king does not know fear?" he exclaimed, the anguish rising in his voice. "I was terrified for you, Narylfiel. Worried that you would be killed…or worse! And that I somehow drove you to this, that I pushed you away. That I lost you…"

"Thranduil, no," she protested weakly. Narylfiel reached out to him, but he shrugged away from her touch. "I should never have said those horrible things to you. Please, do not think—"

He cut her off, his words laced with grief, grief that her actions had invoked. "I am equally to blame, Narylfiel." His eyes were bright and sorrowful, but his voice was grim. "As king, I should have risen above such pettiness, and as king, I cannot ignore your willful disobedience."

She nodded her head, just once. "I understand," she said, and she did. Suddenly all of her journey seemed to catch up with her at once. As much as she wanted to appear strong in front of Thranduil, she was tired, oh so very weary. She sank down on the nearest convenient log, pulled her legs beneath her, wrapped her arm across her torso to slow the dull throb of her injury.

Thranduil eyed her carefully. "I want you to know that I did not make this decision lightly, nor do I take any joy from it." He knew his words, even carefully chosen, would devastate her, but she had left him with few alternatives, and this, this was what he hated perhaps most about being king. Knowing that his decisions willfully brought grief to others.

The starkness of the wet, black wood of the trees mirrored her own dark thoughts. Seeing him standing there, his strong face, almost unbearably regal, the straight fall of his hair bleached silvery white in the fading afternoon light. Beautiful, she thought. A model of elven strength and perfection, he was so far beyond her, and she was fooling herself if she ever thought any part of him would willingly be hers, that she could even hope to claim him. And her recent actions had only widened the gulf between them.

He knelt so they were eye level. "Narylfiel, you must resign your position in the Forest Guard."

Her breath caught, but she made no protest. Her eyes did not brim with tears. Her chin never quivered. Like an emotionless mask, Narylfiel's face betrayed nothing. Indeed she felt nothing, only the numbness of disbelief.

Thranduil continued, his voice softening: "If this was only between us, I could have overlooked this display of defiance from you, but as it stands, other members of the guard are on their way now to retrieve you. Narylfiel, they all know what you have done, and I cannot let this go unpunished."

She finally managed a nod and then buried her face in her hands, unable to do anything else, not speak to Thranduil, not help pile orc bodies, not move from her unfortunate seat on that decrepit log.

With dismay, Thranduil watched Narylfiel crumple into herself. Seldom did he despise the authority of his position, but this was one of those moments; and it was not like he never had to mete out punishment! Wearing the crown often meant being the one to deliver judgment, handle discipline and reprimands. But he never enjoyed it, and now seeing Narylfiel's despair, knowing he must not give in, well, it took most of his willpower right then not to go to her and comfort her. Instead Thranduil just stood there, hands shoved into his pockets, reminding himself that this was her choice, her decision. Only…his eyes were drawn to her once more, noting the silent shake of her shoulders. He turned away.

Thranduil went back to piling the bodies, disgustedly flinging them onto the steadily growing pile. Part of him wanted to load Narylfiel onto Taurion immediately and head back for the palace, but he had told the guards that they would wait, and it would not do for the guards to arrive here and find he and Narylfiel gone, leaving them worry about what had happened to their king. No, it was best to wait.

After a while, Narylfiel had wordlessly stood and joined him clearing the last few bodies; she had not said anything and neither had he. Ever so often, Thranduil stole a glance at her. Her dirty tear-streaked face looked utterly fatigued and miserable, and he wondered what part of the downtrodden slope to her shoulders and listless eyes had to do with being attacked by orcs and how much was a result from losing her rank and position in the forest guard. She had been so proud of her commission; it was all she had wanted since he had known her as an elfling.

By the time Thranduil heaved the last orc onto the pile, the light had dimmed considerably with the shadows thickening under the trees. He dusted off his hands and eyed the final warg.

"Narylfiel," he called her name, and she turned just slightly toward him. "Please help me move this last warg."

As she came up beside him to help lift the beast, Thranduil frankly could not remember a time she ever looked worse. Her warm brown eyes were dull, no, more like pained; her skin was unusually pale. He caught her arm as she brushed past him. "We should just leave this for the guard when they come, Narylfiel. You clearly do not feel well."

She swayed on her feet a bit and tugged her arm free. "It's nothing, Thranduil," Narylfiel insisted and blinked. She then grabbed up one of the enormous furry paws. "Let's just get finished. We can't have the guards thinking you made exceptions for me or anything."

Thranduil narrowed his eyes at that last comment but only in time to see her try to lift the warg all by herself and then topple over, face first into its furry hindquarters.

"Narylfiel!" he exclaimed, immediately lifting her off the carcass and carrying her into the last fading light where he could see her more clearly. Her eyes were glazed, pupils wide, and when he pressed his hand to her forehead, her skin was cold.

He patted her cheek. "Narylfiel," he called to her softly.

Her eyes refocused a little. "Pretty," she slurred her letters, looking up at him. "Maybe we should rest for just a minute or two."

As Thranduil watched her eyes drift shut again, he felt the icy tendrils of dread curl through his heart. She had told him she was not injured! But this—this behavior, the disorientation, chilled skin, and then he recalled that he thought he had heard her retching behind a tree earlier—these were all symptoms brought on by orc poison. Even the smallest cut could prove lethal if untreated. The king hastily pulled off his cloak and lowered her gently upon it, first checking her hands and arms, and then after a brief mental debate, rolled up her vest and tunic to check her waist and abdomen.

His hands stilled after discovering a small knife wound, raw and angrily swollen, marring the delicate skin right under her ribs. She needed medicine, and although Galion had the presence of mind to include a small field kit in Thranduil's bag before he left, treating this sort of wound would require much more than a simple field dressing. A healer would have to draw out the poison, and the longer the poison settled in the wound and entered the blood, the more difficult the removal. He could do it himself now, if he only had the right herbs. Thranduil shook his head angrily. Stubborn girl! Why had she not told him that she was injured? Because she was afraid of you, an unwelcome voice in the king's head chimed. And then he had forced her to pick up and lug all those corpses to burn!

Thranduil gently wrapped her in his cloak and picked her up, hating the decision he was going to have to make. Narylfiel had almost reached the edge of the forest. The palace was hours away. He whistled for Taurion, one long trill. If he wanted to save her, Thranduil would have to ride for Dale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh My! It looks like we're heading to Dale, although Thranduil is none too happy about it! And poor Narylfiel—kicked out of the Forest Guard! Was Thranduil too harsh with his discipline?
> 
> Please let me know how you liked the chapter! Don't forget to leave Kudos, Comment, and Subscribe!
> 
> Thranduil: #ICameToReclaimSomethingOfMine
> 
> Narylfiel: Eep!


	10. Damaged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hands of the king are the hands of a healer...

_Nine hundred years ago…_

_Yesterday Thranduil had suffered a severe disappointment, in his mind perhaps his worst personal failure, and now morning dawned pale and weak, with only a few meager streaks illuminating the sky over the forest. Thranduil watched the horizon from a high talan, a lookout post beyond the bridge leading to the main gates of his palace. He had been there all night, and now dawn bled into the sky, a new and fresh start._

_Only, the Elven King did not really feel very fresh, or particularly enthusiastic about returning to his duties in the palace. Only a few hours before had seen him finish off some particularly strong dwarven liquor, a dubious gift from his neighbors. It had tasted terrible and had done little to take the edge off the sting to his heart._

_His wife, Legolas' mother, left yesterday. She had quietly gathered a single bag of belongings and casually informed him that she would leave with her father, who planned on sailing from Mithlond._

_Thranduil stared at the horizon, willing himself not to squint or blink as the sun peeked over the treetops._

_She had never really loved him. He knew that now. Persuaded by her father, she had fallen in love with the idea of him, and the reality proved a bitter consolation—at least that was what she had told him on her way out the door._

_He finally looked away from the glare of the sunrise and absently rubbed his chest. Thranduil wondered if she felt it too, wherever she was. Last night, alone and miserable, a beyond-angry husband had chaffed under the feeling of his bond with her, tugging his heart. He still longed for her, and he hated himself for it. In his fury to forget her, to erase any reminders, any evidence of his inadequacy, Thranduil had invoked his magic and strength as a healer—he knew how to sever temporary bonds after he had called to a patient's fëa and healed him—so he had turned that resolve inward, toward himself and his bond with Elarien._ Rista gwaedh _. Painfully, agonizingly, he had carved the remains of his bond away from his heart until nothing remained, except a hollow ache._

_He felt it deep in his soul, his heart. He was damaged._

* * *

November, 3018

Night had fallen, and the air was still. Low hanging clouds shrouded all starlight and the moon. When Thranduil charged up to the side gate at Dale, the watchers came forth with their tin lanterns and wonder written in their eyes. Few had seen an elk so large or with antlers so magnificent. Thranduil would not ask Taurion to enter Dale; a wild thing such as he did not belong in a town of men.

Careful not to jar Narylfiel whom he held in his arms, Thranduil dismounted fluidly and whispered directions for Taurion to return to the woods and the protection of his stables. The elven king approached the men, greeting them pleasantly, doing his best to assuage their misgivings. They clearly took him for elven kind, even if he did have his hood drawn up, for whom else would ride to town on a wild elk?

"I seek entry into your town for myself and my companion. Orcs attacked us on our errand, and we have lodgings here in Dale, where we can rest and recover," Thranduil explained. He certainly was not going to divulge his status to the men of the town. The less known, the better.

The pair of men exchanged looks, and one of them, the older one with white whiskers and a scar running along his jaw, warily shuffled closer to get a better view of his elven visitors. "She looks pretty bad off," the man commented looking up at the elf, who fairly towered above him. "Do you need help?"

Thranduil pulled her in more tightly and answered, keeping his voice warm, "No, my elven lord's residence is not far from here, and I will carry her myself."

"Alright then," the second man replied and moved aside to draw open the gate. Thranduil strode through, his eyes moving up to the rows and rows of houses, with their sharp pitched roofs, and curlicues of smoke rising up from their stone chimneys. He remembered with perfect clarity where his house stood. When Dale had been rebuilt after the fall of Smaug, Thranduil had commissioned several workers to build a new residence on the high street at the top of the hill, a place where his traders, raft-elves, the occasional messenger could lodge without issue.

Thankful that most of the town was quiet, asleep in their beds, Thranduil moved through the streets unnoticed, unremarked upon, and he preferred it that way. The last thing he wanted was to have meddling city officials at his door, hoping to court the attention of the Elven King. As he maneuvered through the streets, snow began to fall, a fine powder coating the cobblestones and frosting the rooftops.

Finally, he reached his house, glad to see that the windows were lit, and his hired caretakers had not been remiss of their duties.

Thranduil did not wait for anyone to answer the door to the house. He knocked only once, and then satisfied that he had given them warning, he wrenched the door open, carefully shifting Narylfiel's weight to his other arm and chest. The retainers hurried into the front room at the sound of the crash. They were an elderly couple, which Thranduil had kept on his payroll for many years, provided that they keep the house fresh and well-stocked with supplies for when his people came to Dale for trade. He frowned briefly. He did not remember them being quite so old.

Thranduil did not give them his name or tell them he was the Elvenking; he was elven kind and that was enough. The elderly couple gawked for a few seconds, in awe of his piercing blue eyes as dark and brilliant as the stars upon the Long Lake, the gold-spun hair, and the protective way he cradled another elf to his chest. Her clothes were torn, and her face, an unhealthy shade of gray. Then the old man remembered his place and hastily introduced himself as Jorid and his wife as Mara.

"Your companion, she is injured?" he asked the elf.

"Yes, for we ran into orcs on our way here," Thranduil told him simply. "I can heal her, but I will need some supplies."

"Yes, of course, my lord," Jorid agreed emphatically. "We have a well-supplied cabinet; your king requested that we—"

Thranduil interrupted him and started up the stairs, "Bring hot water, fresh linen for bandages, athelas—kingsfoil, in Common—yarrow, and plantain, if you have it." He took her into the largest room, one that had three small windows facing west toward his woods. He placed her down on the bed, tenderly brushing her hair to one side, while Jorid rushed in with an armful of supplies, proudly showing his visitor the precious blown glass bottles and a tiny pouch of athelas.

"Just bring the water whenever it's ready," Thranduil instructed him, and Jorid nodded obediently and started to hurry to the kitchen.

Thranduil caught the old man by the arm before he could leave. "And please, do not interrupt—no matter what you may see!"

The healer in him went to work. Shrugging off his dark green suede jerkin and rolling up his sleeves, Thranduil attended to the small washbasin in the corner of the room, scrubbing off the dried streaks of orc blood from his hands and fingers. Once satisfied with the results, he went to Narylfiel. It seemed so wrong that she was this unnaturally still. So unlike her. So very wrong, he thought. Unfastening her vest, Thranduil gently peeled off the fabric from the wound, which looked worse than before, if that was even possible. Festering and swollen, the cut's edges had darkened to black.

Thranduil squeezed his eyes shut, breathed. Reminding himself that he must not fail her, he listened to his own heart beat, willed himself to be calm, steady. After a few measured breaths, he looked up, studied Narylfiel's prone form; she looked so small, so young.

Her long curling lashes rested darkly against the shadows bruising the pale skin under her eyes. Thranduil felt her forehead; her skin was clammy, cold, and still with his hand pressed warmly against her skin, he whispered a prayer to the Valar, asking for guidance, that they would help him hear the the song of Iluvatar. He became utterly still, and he listened. He heard the clatter of horses' hooves on cobblestones down the street, he heard the little old man downstairs adding wood to the fire, he heard the northern wind push against the shingles on the roof, and he listened for the quiet strains of Narylfiel's own part in the Song, reminded of the sound of her laughter, brown eyes shining at him, light feet skipping through his halls. He breathed in, willing his own song to envelope hers.

Thranduil then noticed the bowl of hot steaming water that the old man must have delivered. He took the dried athelas leaves from the tiny little pouch. It was such a small amount, but it would have to do for now. Crushing them with his fingers, he shook them into the water, and the sweet fresh smell curled into the air, focused his senses.

He slid his hand over her heart, feeling the shallow rise and fall of her chest, and called her name while he did so, pouring the warmth of his spirit, his power, his fëa , channeling it through his hands. Invoking the liege bond of king to vassal, he called to her first as her king, then as her friend; he closed his eyes, could feel rather than see the delicate shining veins of her fëa, her spirit running warm and vibrant like life blood through her hröa, crisscrossing through her body in a beautiful lacy pattern, a filigree net circulating out from her heart, giving her strength, giving her light, feeding her song, the song of light feet skipping down his halls, and Thranduil let his own spirit drift down from his hands, filter out into that golden brown warmth and call to her. As carefully as he could, he infused his own strength into that lacy, shining net, calling to her softly again and again, invoking a bond to heal and to soothe with the grace of the Valar.

Her eyes fluttered open, only for a moment. "Thranduil, no," she whispered, but it was too late.

Like one who has been trying to catch an unseen hair or thread, the king at last felt the surety of one fragile wisp, and closed around it tightly, with all his strength and will.

And as soon as he did, he pushed all of his warmth, his healing, toward her through that tiny vessel, burning away any trace of poison, soothing the swollen veins, mending the damage wrought. He could feel her chill and how the poison burned as he forced the tar-like substance from her veins, as he purged its blackening crawl through the intricate weave of her fëa. Her eyelashes fluttered slightly as he repeated incantation after incantation.

The poison was slow to leave, resistant, and Thranduil shifted on his feet. It wasn't enough, he feared. Too much damage had been done; her body was dying, and the king could feel her delicate spirit, the fine golden brown web waver and dim without the energy of the hröa. The rise and fall of her chest slowed. Thranduil's eyes flashed. He would not lose her. Don't fight me, Narylfiel," he implored her, gripping her hand. "Let me heal you. Trust me, little spark. Let go," and he pressed a soft kiss to her cool cheek.

A rush of sensations, emotions, flooded him as soon as his lips touched her cold skin. Love, friendship, pain, grief surged from the tangled gossamer latticework, radiating through the bond he had forged which she had finally stopped resisting, and Thranduil seized the opportunity and strengthened their connection, pooling his warmth all around it, listening to the dull beat of her heart, and willfully he blended his vibrant fëa with hers, hearing her song strum along the warm golden brown strands, echoing its refrain with layers of his own triumphant notes.

Love, friendship, pain, grief, the king could feel her emotions rise and bubble within himself. Thranduil focused his energy, concentrated on the dark twisting lines of poison snaking through her body. Love, friendship, pain, grief. She hurt. Fire consumed her veins. She was tired, so weary.

And then Thranduil saw himself, or rather saw a likeness of himself as Narylfiel saw him, impossibly tall, silken hair falling over his shoulder. It was a memory or a dream, and Thranduil knew at once he had pushed too hard, opened the bond too far. The images surged forward before he could stop them. He had lost control.

He saw a memory, one he thought he recalled, although a little hazy, though shrouded in a fine mist. Narylfiel looked older than he remembered her actually being in this dream-memory. They were in her bedroom. He had heard her cry out in the night, and he had left his rooms to check on her. In his recollection, he had reassured her that the dark dreams of her first encounters with spiders and orcs while on patrol with the forest guard would fade. He had patted her hand, kissed the top of her head and left.

In Narylfiel's dream-memory, Thranduil watched as dream-Thranduil stood, a tall silhouette at her door, hesitant until his ears pricked at the sound of her tossing and turning. She had cried out, and he had called to her softly, brushing his hand over her silken hair. He leaned down to press a kiss to her cheek; only in this dream, she angled her head at the last moment, meeting his lips with her own. And suddenly Thranduil was no longer merely a spectator watching the scene unfold, but rather he felt the press of petal soft lips against his own, could feel his own mouth hungry against hers, ready to consume, devouring her. He pushed her back into the pillows, felt her hands ghosting up the sides of his shirt, his own hands skimming down the length of her long, white nightgown until he reached the hem.

The force of her need for him lanced through their bond with a sizzling white heat and intensity so great that it was painful.

Thranduil staggered back, and frantically tried to withdraw from the bond he had initiated, to limit their connection, anxious to separate himself from what he had just seen, from what he felt. She was unconscious, and he turned away from her, confused, ashamed. His body had completely betrayed him, and he still throbbed from the heat of Narylfiel's dream-memory.

He pressed his forehead to the icy windowpane, trying desperately to find any measure to cool his blood. Thranduil glanced back at the elleth sleeping behind him. Tamping down tightly on those threads woven with his own, he carefully approached her, and tried to assess what still needed to be done.

He had not finished drawing out the poison, but he did not trust himself to reopen the bond right now, not even a little bit. For now, he had removed enough of the poison to save her. The king told himself that he would try again after he rested, after he collected himself. To keep himself busy, his long fingers went to work making a poultice to place on the wound that would help draw out more of the poison in his absence. With the utmost care, he applied the athelas and yarrow paste onto the dark, raw edges of where the orc's blade had torn her skin and then applied a clean bandage. He ignored the fact that his hands shook as he leaned over to touch her or that his eyes lingered on her heart-shaped lips. He quickly found a blanket, covered her with it.

Oh, Valar! Thranduil thought to himself as he collapsed into a spindly rocking chair in the corner of the room. He stretched his long legs out and tried his best not to dwell on what he had seen and felt, what Narylfiel had inadvertently shown him. But of course, he could think of little else. She loved him, wanted him even, and based on the force of emotions that flooded through their bond, these feelings were not the product of some casual attraction. How long had she felt this way? The degree of her desire nearly undid him. Thranduil scrubbed his face with his hands. She had been jealous when she had spied him being kissed under the mistletoe at the Yule feast. Of course she had been upset.

Thranduil usually prided himself on his decision-making abilities, his discernment, and wisdom. But this…

He did not know what to do, or even how to begin. She was his dearest friend, his little spark. He certainly could not let her keep languishing after him; and now that he knew of her attraction, it was not like he could just un-know it!

Above all, he did not want to hurt her, but it was becoming clear to him that his blindness to her feelings for him had already caused her pain and would undoubtedly hurt her even more in the long run. He was too old for her, and…and he was hopelessly damaged. She deserved someone young and whole.

He would try his best to forget what her lips had felt like beneath his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Thank you for reading! Please leave Kudos, Comment, and Subscribe!
> 
> Well, does that count as a first kiss? Maybe not. It's definitely NOT what Narylfiel probably had in mind! And how mortified is she going to be that Thranduil saw that little fantasy? Should he tell her about what he saw or not? Hmmm...
> 
> Thranduil: #ISawNothing! #IsItHotInHere?
> 
> Next chapter should be a doozy! There may need to be another heart to heart! Right?


	11. Protective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil makes a decision...

_Two hundred and fifty years ago…_

_Thranduil knocked the sword out of her hand. Again._

_Narylfiel huffed as she leaned down to pick it back up and dusted off the dirt. "Are you enjoying yourself?"_

_He smirked a little. "I always enjoy our special times together," he said and laughed. "Remember, it was your idea to come down here in the first place!"_

_She rubbed her backside where she had fallen on it. Again. Smiling, she shook her head and then swung her sword lazily in her hand. "Best out of seven?" she quipped._

_Thranduil held up his hand, as if to pause their game. "Show me the grip again," he instructed her. She came over to him and aligned her hands over the hilt of her sword, just how he had shown her earlier._

" _That is a good start," he coached her, "but I noticed on your follow-through that your hands were sliding."_

_Narylfiel's eyes narrowed in frustration. "Ugh!" she exclaimed. "If only I had gigantic hands like yours." She tried the grip again and showed Thranduil._

" _Better," he said with a nod and then grinned slyly. "And Narylfiel, if you had huge hands, then that would be a little off-putting to any future suitors."_

_She rolled her eyes. "Oh, yes. All those future suitors lining up at my door," she retorted._

_Thranduil shook his head. "You are adorable," he told her, "even if you do have a sloppy grip." He leaned in, whispered conspiratorially, "I hear some elves in the guard could even learn to look past that sort of thing." Thranduil turned and reached for the pitcher of water._

" _Well, there's only one possible elf that I would consider courting," she told him frankly._

_Thranduil straightened, glanced at her from over his shoulder. "Oh? Who?" he asked._

" _Trust me when I say that he is not interested," Narylfiel said glumly. She sheathed her sword and took the offered cup from the king's hand._

" _Hmm, secretive," Thranduil observed. "Just tell me his name, and I would throw him in the dungeons for you." He winked at her, and then offered his arm to return back to the palace from the range._

_Narylfiel could only smile wryly. "Perhaps one of these days I will let you know," she said._

* * *

November, 3018:

From possibly the most uncomfortable man-made seat, a too-small rocking chair with spindles carved at just the right pitch and angle to dig into his back, the elven king of the Woodland Realm watched his young charge sleep fitfully all night. Perhaps he could have summoned the servants who ran the household for a cushion or a more comfortable seat, but Thranduil did not budge from his post. He was far too deep in thought.

His mind drifted to all the times over the past year that she had come to him, popping into his study with a charming smile or story to tell or meeting him at the range to practice, of all the hours they had sat and visited over tea. Narylfiel made him laugh. She always found a way to lighten his mood. He thought of all the occasions when he had teased her about having a suitor. She had always hinted that there was one who held her fancy, but she had never named any elf. Thranduil now knew the source of her reticence—for surely she had meant him! He massaged his temples, and exasperatedly noted that he had caught himself staring at her again. He tried to focus on all the possible times that he should have realized how Narylfiel felt for him, but instead his mind kept going back to how she had clung to him in the dream, how her body had felt against his.

He couldn't lie to himself. There was a part of him, and he was not sure how much, but a part of him that was more than a little intrigued by the promise of Narylfiel's dream. He had felt cold and distant, disconnected, for so long—and as for last night? That dream, however brief, had ignited something in him that he had long thought dead. He had wanted her in that dream, and truth be told; he still wanted her right now.

Outside, the sun crept up over the distant foothills. Thranduil half-watched as the early light touched the windows and inched across the room, until the warm beams fell across the length of the bed. He could not deny how he had felt when Narylfiel had kissed him, pulled him into her, enveloped him in her warmth, her hands on his chest—nothing about it had even been real—but it had felt real. His bond with her, the one he had clamped down on, but not broken off, certainly felt more real than anything Thranduil had experienced in a long time.

He rubbed his chest and sighed. How could he even think that? She was Thaliniel's little sister.

She was young and beautiful. He wasn't blind. Of course he knew how beautiful she was, had seen it for years. Her long shining brown hair and lively eyes, always sparkling, always seeing the fun in a situation, her long, long legs, slim waist, and curves that even her guard's uniform couldn't hide. Thranduil loved beautiful things, prized beauty in his halls, but she was no gem to be hidden away in his vaults. Even if Narylfiel chose to remain naively unaware, Thranduil knew for a fact that she was not without admirers, those who would eagerly line up to court her, bed her. And thankfully, she had always spurned every advance. Now he knew why.

He contemplated how he might have felt if she had returned their attentions, if Narylfiel had attended a fire circle and a young, eager ellon pulled her into the woods, his hands going for her waist… No, Thranduil realized with the perfect clarity of one who has slept little in the past two nights, that he would not have welcomed the idea. Narylfiel was his little spark, always had been, and he naturally felt protective. But ah, was that protectiveness really just a nice veneer for his possessive nature? He did not like to share.

Thranduil huffed and stood up. He drew a worried glance at Narylfiel who had yet to wake; her pulse was low and her skin was still too cool to the touch for his peace of mind. He removed the soiled dressing, stained oily black from the seeping poison and replaced it with a clean bandage. She was not healing as quickly as he would like, and he had seen many poison-related wounds over the years. The orcs were either getting better at their craft or had somehow found a better source; they usually employed a mixture of spider venom, but this poison was the most resistant he had seen in a long time.

If only he had completed the bond-healing last night, Thranduil despaired. But now was no time for recriminations! He feared now that the bond-healing might not be enough. Narylfiel needed medicine; if he were back at the palace, he would prescribe a suspension of _agar salque,_ for it fortified the blood, but the herb was rare, and he doubted that he would be able to find it here in Dale.

He absently brushed his hand over her hair. She would rest better and more comfortably in clean clothes. The elven king noted with disgust her stained and rent tunic. Why had he not insisted that she be changed last night? Thranduil took a minute to straighten his own clothing and smoothed his hair and then thundered downstairs to the kitchen where he was sure to find the old man and woman.

They were there, sitting together at a tiny green glazed table with a pot of tea. They stopped whispering when he came into the room. Of course, they were talking about him. With his elven hearing, he could not help but catch snatches of their conversation even from upstairs, things like "so tall, nearly touching the ceiling" and "never seen him before" and "noble looking, maybe an emissary for their king, sent to check up on us;" he was too polite to eavesdrop and had tried to ignore most of it.

The little old man, stoop shouldered and squat, hopped up as soon as he saw him. "My lord, what do you need?" he asked eagerly.

"My companion seems to rest comfortably for now. She will need a change of clothes," he said and fixed his gaze at Mara, the wife. "Will you attend her?"

Mara nodded approvingly. "I was thinking about that since last night. Poor thing!" she tsked and made her way up the stairs.

The elf turned his gaze to the man next, who, to his credit, did not shrink from the intensity of his dark blue gaze. "I require an apothecary—she needs medicine," Thranduil informed the old man.

"I-I-I would be happy to fetch whatever you need, my lord," Jorid said, and he reached for his muffler hung by the back door.

Thranduil's eyes flicked over his short legs, unsteady feet. He glanced out the small window, mostly obscured by lethal looking icicles dangling from the eaves.

"I can go more quickly," Thranduil decided. He certainly could not send this old fellow out across icy streets; he might break a hip or something. Humans, so frail in their elder years! The elven king rushed from the room to grab his cloak, not that he feared the weather but mostly to conceal his hair and ears. The old man gave him some directions, and Thranduil bade him to keep the fire hot in Narylfiel's room while he left. He worried about leaving her, if only for a little while. Even if he had limited his bond with her—and with great difficulty, too!—he still felt the tug of his connection to her, urging him to return upstairs, to her bedside with his hand in hers, her warmth, her love. Quick to squash that line of thinking, Thranduil yanked on his cloak and hurried out the door, raising the hood at the first bite of cold air snapping across his cheek.

Thranduil found the apothecary's shop squeezed into a small corner on the lower streets where most of the guilds and craftsmen plied their wares. A sign with 'Wychelm's Herborium' in fading paint with the remnants of fading leaves and vines swung over the door. He ignored most of the looks he drew as he crossed the street; even with his hood drawn, he was still taller than most men, and more than a few people angled their heads to get a closer look.

The door slammed shut with a merry jingle behind him, and a sickly sweet cloying smell assailed him, making Thranduil's eyes water and his temper short. He would have completely abandoned the idea had he not needed medicine for Narylfiel. A tremor ran through him at the thought of her; he knew it was the bond and the newness of it, and being parted from her, even temporarily, pained him. The sooner he could get her the medicine she needed and finish healing her, the better, Thranduil decided.

"What can I do for you today, my good sir?" a voice chirped behind him, and the Elven King startled, turning around so quickly that he frightened the apothecary, who knocked off his own tasseled cap in his excitement.

"Goodness me, young fellow!" the apothecary exclaimed in a rather pinched voice as reached for his cap and replaced it snugly on his balding head. "Don't be so hasty!" He was middle-aged, Thranduil guessed. He never fancied himself a good judge of age when it came to the lives of men, but something about the apothecary's tone just set him on edge.

The elven king pulled back his hood, slowly, letting it drop down. His blonde hair shone even more golden in the meager lamp light of the shop, and Thranduil narrowed his eyes at the man before him.

"I have been called many things," Thranduil replied slowly, his voice deep and melodic, as he took a measured step toward the man, "but young fellow—I have not heard that in many ages."

"We d-d-don't get many elves this way," the man stammered, looking up. "What do you need today?"

The name of the herb was just on the tip of Thranduil's tongue when he unexpectedly felt a deep chill, as if ice had seeped into his very bones, and he could not help but shudder. It was the bond, he realized—and right now Narylfiel suffered; perhaps her fever had worsened. Thranduil grimaced and pressed his hand over his heart, as if that gesture would somehow ease the unbearable, a slow creep of frost through his veins. He needed to hurry. He needed to get back to her. Now.

"Are you ill?" The apothecary tried to sound concerned.

"No," Thranduil replied brusquely, "I need _agar salque—"_ he thought for a minute and shook his head, "—It would be called blood grass in your tongue." He tried to ignore the feeling of dread stealing over him.

"Blood grass? I don't have any," said the apothecary, a little too quickly for Thranduil's comfort.

The elven king nodded but drew out several gold coins from his pocket and turned them over in his palm for the man to see. "You would earn the gratitude of the elves of the Woodland Realm."

The man looked away, and Thranduil sensed his discomfort. "I don't have any," he repeated. "Blood grass only grows during the vernal equinox! I collected all I could, but I sold it. Just sold the last of it a few weeks ago."

The elf's eyes sharpened as he scanned the myriad shelves lining the walls, full of countless ointments, medicines, potions, herbal remedies. Thranduil angled his head and studied the man for a few seconds, who shifted uneasily under the intensity of that icy elven gaze. "I sense that you are not being entirely honest with me," the elf's eyes darted to the hanging sign, "Wychelm. I could look through every single bottle in this store, check every collection just to make sure you're being honest; of course, things might get frightfully messy before I finished."

Wychelm glared up at him. "You wouldn't!"

"I would, and I could get away with it before you could stop me," Thranduil told him, his voice still easy and warm. "To whom did you sell the blood grass? Perhaps they would be willing to sell some of their share or make a trade."

"I don't know who the buyer was! They were cloaked!" the apothecary sputtered, his eyes growing wide as Thranduil returned the coins to his pocket and pulled out a long, elegant looking knife instead.

"Do you often make a habit of selling to customers with secret identities?" Thranduil asked incredulously as he traced his fingers over the runes engraved on the blade. "What else did they buy?

"Just the blood grass!" Wychelm said, his voice ending in a terrified squeal as Thranduil caught his arm and shoved the man into the back wall. The bottles and jars rattled on the shelves, and the elven king was upon him with inhuman speed, his knife poised at the man's throat.

"You are lying," Thranduil coolly informed him. "Why?" Underneath his poised exterior, the elf felt ansty, impatient to leave. Narylfiel needed him. He tightened his grip on Wychelm's upper arms.

"He told me to say nothing!" The man sniffed pitifully, his eyes filling with panicked tears. "He paid me double and told me he would be back!"

"I am here right now," Thranduil countered, eyes gleaming, "with a knife at your throat, and you're worried about later?" He smiled mirthlessly.

"Mandrake!" the man cried. "I sold him the blood grass and my entire supply of mandrake!"

Thranduil stilled and then released his grip on the man. "Mandrake?"

"Yes, most people usually want it as a fertility aid! So I sell it!"

Thranduil backed away, sheathed his knife with a metal hiss. "But it's also a poison…in the right doses or mixed with other ingredients could be used as a lethal poison." He pressed his hand to chest again, feeling the strain of his bond with Narylfiel as he recalled the oily, dark substance oozing from her wound.

The apothecary adjusted his hat with a sniff. "What they do with their mandrake afterwards is not my concern."

"It is your concern now," Thranduil informed him matter-of-factly. "If my companion dies, I just might come back and kill you. Tell me then, who else have you sold blood grass to in the past year?"

"The dwarves! I know I sold some to them. Their main healer came in. They were having a problem—some of their young warriors were sick. He paid in gold!" squeaked the man.

Thranduil nodded just once and then left the shop without a further word, the door with its bells jingling behind him. The sharp cold air and tang of wood smoke cleared his thoughts, and he pulled his hood back over his head. The dwarves. If only it were anyone, anybody else. He crossed the street, but his eyes were drawn to Erebor as he hurried back to his house on high street. As he finally turned the last corner, he saw the old man at the front door, looking for someone—looking for him!

"My lord, she is awake and asking for you. My wife is with her now—we think she's feverish—started right after you left." He held open the door for his employer, and Thranduil did not waste anytime getting to Narylfiel's side.

She _was_ awake but hardly coherent. Her face brightened when he entered the room, discarded his cloak on the chair and took up her hand in his.

"Thranduil," she murmured. "I'm cold, so cold."

The elven king checked her dressing, and then pressed his hand to her forehead. Not feverish, but her body temperature had dropped. The poison was still fighting against her system, slowing her heart beat.

"She's been crying for you since she woke up," the little old woman told him, rising from the stool she had pulled up by the bedside. "We built up the fire and added another blanket, but her skin feels like she fell through ice into the Long Lake. It's like she's going into shock."

Thranduil nodded, not taking his eyes off of the elleth in his care. He tucked the blanket more carefully around her, and Narylfiel's eyes fluttered and closed and then opened again.

"Thranduil, I am sorry," she whispered. "Sorry to cause you all this trouble…"

"What? No, naurenniel," he chided her softly, smoothing her hair back. "It is no trouble, and I am here with you."

"It's just that it hurts," she mumbled. "So cold, and lost."

"Get into bed with her," suggested the old lady.

"What?" said Thranduil. He had forgotten she was still in the room with him.

"Get in bed with her," instructed Mara, all seriousness. "When my Thomas fell through the ice when he was just a boy, the healers had me strip down to my underclothes and hold him under the blankets—warmth—body heat."

"Couldn't you…?" Thranduil's voice trailed off and he gestured to the bed.

"No," she answered flatly. "I'm just skin and bones—couldn't keep myself warm enough—but you," she eyed him speculatively. "Well, just look at you! You probably heat up enough for three beds!"

Thranduil nodded, still unsure. He sat down on the edge of the bed, pulled off his boots, removed his jerkin. The old lady still stood there, hands on her hips, as if waiting. He stared back at her. He wasn't just going to strip down with her there, staring at him.

Narylfiel moaned in her sleep. Thranduil reached for her, brushed his finger down her cheek. She was so cold, like death. He refused to entertain the possibility.

"Are you worried for her virtue, my lord?" Mara asked, eyes softening.

Thranduil cast a glance at the elleth behind him, her soft brown hair fanning across the pillow, her lips, slightly parted. "I'm more worried for mine than hers," he said under his breath.

He looked back at the old lady, still watching. "I will call for you if I need anything," he informed her and then without waiting any more, he pulled off his tunic in one fluid movement, baring broad shoulders and arms, chiseled from years of sword work and archery. Even as king, his was a warrior's body, toned and deadly.

The old lady turned to leave, a rosy hue on her leathery cheeks. "You'll do," she told him approvingly, "you'll do."

Thranduil slid into the covers, hesitated, and then pulled Narylfiel into his arms. Everything about her was cold, even through her thin nightdress, and touching her amplified their bond—he could feel how chilled she was, especially for elves who so rarely feel cold—and in spite of himself, Thranduil shivered. He had cleared most of the poison from her system; why then was she not recovering? He hugged her to his chest and concentrated on their bond. He could feel the sweep of cold through her veins, down her arms to her hands, and he covered hers with his own, warming her thinly clad shoulder with his breath. He willed her to rest and draw from his warmth, and he sang to her softly a song of peace and love, pulling her through the bond to a place of warm sun under green-leaved trees, where the moss grew thick and water chortled along smooth grey stones. He pictured them there, together, propped up against an enormous trunk, his arm wrapped around her waist and her head nestled warmly on his shoulder. Rest, dear one. Rest.

* * *

Narylfiel woke up first, just as the shadows were starting to lengthen across the room. She felt warm, safe, and surprisingly satisfied. Content. As her senses came into focus, she realized with a mixture of clarity and growing alarm, that she was in bed, wearing someone else's nightgown, and there was a very heavy and muscular arm draped across her waist.

Dread and curiosity curdled in her stomach. She had seen that elegant hand before, knew exactly who had those long, strong fingers. Narylfiel's eyes followed the trail from the tips of his fingers nestled in the warmth of her gown up his arm to his bare shoulder…

…and met his eyes, so soft, watching her.

He gently disentangled himself from her, brushed a hand over her hair. "Hello, there," he told her. "This is the best I've seen you since the forest."

Bewildered, she looked down at her nightdress, tenderly prodded her injury, and then peered at him, at his chest, the sculpt of his arms. She blushed. "This is new," she commented. "When did this happen?"

Thranduil actually returned her blush and then reached across her to the stool where he had dropped his shirt earlier. But he did not pull it on. Instead, he nervously wadded the fabric into a ball, and then pensively straightened it back out. He turned toward her, gathered his hair and let it fall over his shoulder.

"I brought you to Dale last night," he told her, running his hand over the top of her hair. "It was…not good. I was afraid I was going to lose you."

"You healed me?" she asked, frowning a little, and Thranduil sensed her anxiety, her embarrassment.

"Can you feel it? I had to invoke a healer's bond to draw out the poison," Thranduil told her and then added, disappointedly. "I wasn't able to finish last night, and then earlier this morning you went into shock—you were freezing, so—"

"Wait, wait, wait—" she interrupted him. "You made a healer's bond with me? Like that thing you did with Legolas that one time?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest, protectively.

"Narylfiel, I had to—"

She sucked in her breath, cut her eyes to his, searched them worriedly. And for the first time, she felt him, more than just the heat of his body next to hers, but she could feel his peace and warmth radiating through her, and in one moment her heart soared at their connection—at the intimacy—but in the next, she realized how false it all was, only because of her injury, and her eyes filled with tears.

"Thank you, Thranduil," she said, looking down, and her hair hung down around her face, hiding it from view. "I wish you hadn't," she added quietly.

Struck by her disappointment and longing, the king brushed her hair back, guided her chin up to look at him. "Narylfiel, I had no medicine, no resources. You were dying. I only wish I could have removed all of the poison through the bond-healing."

"Why? Why didn't it work?" she asked, still hurting, and pointed out, "It worked with Legolas."

"I did not realize it at the time, but the poison in your system is some new kind of evil concoction—more potent, more resistant," Thranduil paused. He swallowed hard and took all of her in, her long silken hair, and trusting big brown eyes, those heart-shaped lips, and he hated himself for what he knew he was going to say next.

"Narylfiel, I saw something through the bond I forged between us during the healing, something I know you didn't mean for me to see, but I did, and I never meant to intrude," the elven king said, chagrined.

She stilled. "What did you see?" Narylfiel heard herself say. Her voice sounded odd to her ears, and she was fully prepared to die from mortification right then and there.

Thranduil took her hand, and focusing on their bond, he pushed the image of them kissing to her. All of it. Narylfiel immediately pulled her hand away as if she'd been burned and covered her face.

"I could have never acted on it," she cried, her voice muffled from behind her hands. "I do care about you, more than I have ever cared about anyone, but…you're also my best friend, and I would never want to jeopardize that."

"Narylfiel," he started carefully. He really wanted to pull her back into his arms at once, because he felt all of her shame and hurt weighing down her heart, but he refrained and instead said, "I want you to know that you are dear to me, precious. I care about you greatly."

Narylfiel shook her head woefully.

So Thranduil continued, "I also want you to know that although I was surprised, well, shocked by your dream," he felt himself smile, "I am not opposed to the idea behind it." And as soon as he said this aloud, he realized it was true.

Narylfiel looked up from her hands. "You're not?" Disbelief underscored her small voice, and her heart began to race.

"No, I'm not," confessed Thranduil, and he grinned a little, and the effect of him there, lying next to her, smiling down at her, with his silvery-golden hair cascading down across what Narylfiel thought might be the most perfect chest and arms ever, well, it was enough to make her want to melt.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, hey! Ten pages in this chapter, guys! That's 30% more than the last chapter, just saying, but I just couldn't stop! I hope you liked the new developments in this chapter, and as always, please leave Kudos, Comment, and Subscribe! 
> 
> What happens next? Narylfiel still needs that medicine, and looks like the only people around who have it are the Dwarves... Who feels up to a visit to the Lonely Mountain?
> 
> Thranduil: #NotOpposedAtAll
> 
> Narylfiel: #Melting
> 
> Legolas: #DysfunctionalFamily Help!


	12. Dangerous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil reluctantly journeys to Erebor...

_Autumn 2941, Third Age:_

_Failure left such a bitter taste in his mouth._

_It was late, far later than the Elven King was known to stay on his enormous carven throne, now cast into a pool of darkness in the cavernous hall. If the king's antlered broach on his chest did not occasionally reflect the lamplight, then he would have easily been mistaken for the shadows._

" _I missed them?" Narylfiel's voice betrayed her disappointment. She had never seen a dwarf before. It was just one more let down that she was going to have to let go._

" _They may have escaped," the king admitted crossly._

" _That's impossible!" she exclaimed and frowned._

" _Apparently not," the king bit off his words. Narylfiel could not make his expression out very clearly because of the shadows, but even so, this might have been the angriest that she had ever seen her king._

" _Tell me about what happened?" Narylfiel asked, looking up at the throne, hoping he would come down to her._

_Thranduil uncrossed his legs and then crossed them again. He muttered something that Narylfiel could not quite make out._

_Now, many a wise elf would have turned and discreetly left the king to his own dark mood at this point, but Narylfiel had never counted herself among the very wise. Instead, she climbed the stairs ascending to the king's enormous antlered throne and plopped down at the top step at his feet._

_He scowled at her. She could see his face clearly now and the way his eyebrows seemed to curve into a singular frustrated line, but she remained undaunted._

" _What do you think you're doing?" he asked sharply._

" _Well, I'm pretty hungry, having just come back from the southern border, but I wanted to spend some time with you," she told him, ignoring his pique._

" _So you're just going to sit there?" asked the king. His eyes glittered coolly in the dark._

" _With you, your majesty," she replied simply and gazed up at him. She knew he was angry, and his temper honestly frightened her from time to time. But they were also friends, and she could not in good conscience leave him stewing over the dwarves' escape all night._

" _I might stay here all night," he countered, smoothing out an invisible crease from his tunic._

" _Then I shall as well," Narylfiel said agreeably._

" _I could order the guards to carry you to the dungeons," the king warned her._

" _Apparently," she said, borrowing his own word from earlier, and smiled sweetly up at him, "they're not that secure."_

_Thranduil pursed his lips at her remark. Of course he was not going to laugh, even if it was funny; instead, he let out an exasperated sigh. "Fine," he said. "But only because I can't have you fainting off the steps from lack of nourishment."_

_He stood and then helped her to her feet. "I really despise those greedy little miners," he told her as they walked down to the kitchens. "They honestly believe they're better than the elves, Narylfiel." He snorted and pushed open the door to the dining room. "Delusional."_

" _Where do you think they went?"_

" _Oh, I have no doubt that they want to return to Erebor," Thranduil said tiredly as pulled out a chair for her and took his usual seat at the table. "This whole mess will end in a bloodbath, Narylfiel. Our people are not the only ones with claim to the treasure in that mountain. If the dragon does not kill them first, then..."_

" _Then what, Thranduil?" Her voice sounded small and lost in the tall-ceilinged room._

" _Then I do not know," he told her and did not speak of it again that evening, but in his prideful heart, Thranduil already knew exactly what he would do. He would not leave their insult unanswered; he had heard that other races deemed the elves of the Woodland Realm 'more dangerous and less wise.' Well, he would show them exactly how dangerous they could be._

* * *

November 3018, Third Age:

After Thranduil excused himself to make some arrangements for their travel, the kindly old woman returned to Narylfiel's bedside with her clothes, cleaned and mended. Narylfiel took them gratefully and accepted the woman's help in getting dressed.

"Your young man, err elf, seems set on getting you this medicine," she observed to Narylfiel with a sly smile. "He has been most attentive to you."

"He is too kind," Narylfiel allowed as she gingerly leaned over to pull on her boots.

"Here now, let me help you with that," Mara insisted. "I still don't know why he insists on dragging you up to that mountain with him. Poor thing, you've been so ill."

Narylfiel placed a calming hand on the older lady's fretful ones. "The dwarves may have the medicine that can fight the poison; my friend hopes to draw the rest out once the medicine weakens the poison's hold over me." She shrugged. "Elven medicine, I don't really understand much about it either."

Mara nodded and pulled a small comb from her apron pocket. "If you don't mind, my lady, I thought I might…"

"Yes, of course! Please do," Narylfiel encouraged and turned around. Mara admiringly drew the comb through the long shining strands. "Your hair is lovely. Such a warm color."

Narylfiel colored a little as she recalled earlier in the afternoon, waking in Thranduil's arms, hearing him admit that he would consider changing the boundaries of their relationship! She did not even know what to call it. Had he agreed to be her suitor? The word seemed painfully inadequate to suggest what he offered, encompassed. To be lovers? Narylfiel blushed some more. She was thankful that Mara stood behind her and could not see her reddening cheeks. Thranduil had run his hands over and through her hair, smoothed it away from her face and eyes. Those hands—and this time bearing no rings, no king's crest—just long, attentive fingers that soothed her, had combed through her hair, toying with its ends, half-braiding and unbraiding the strands as his eyes searched hers. He had been so tender, so gentle and loving. Narylfiel had been sure that he was going to lean in right then and kiss her, just like in her dream…

…but he had not. Did not. Kiss her. Not even one tiny little peck. Instead, he told her that they were going to have to go on a little excursion to get her some medicine and he excused himself. She watched him leave her bed and drank in the sight of his long, lean torso—those shoulders!—and narrow hips hugged by soft leggings. Narylfiel had really only wanted to do two things in that moment: first, to weep from the loss of him; second, to vow to get him back into her bed under any sort of circumstance or design.

"My lady?" Mara tapped her on the shoulder.

"Oh!" Narylfiel stopped daydreaming. "I am sorry. Did you say something?"

Mara smiled at her kindly. "I asked if I could pack you and his lordship some food for the trip." She patted Narylfiel's knee. "Why don't you come down to the kitchens with me, my dear? It would do you good to get up and around a little bit."

Mara wasted no time in installing Narylfiel at the small green table by the back window and bringing her a mug of steaming broth, hot off the stove. She sat down across from the elleth and picked up her basket of mending, working a little while she kept a watchful eye on how much broth her patient drank. She asked curiously about Narylfiel's family; would they not be worried about her? To which Narylfiel replied that they would not worry about her knowing that she was in good hands. Thranduil would never let anything happen to her.

Mara cleared her throat. "Thranduil," she repeated. "This is your handsome companion's name?"

Narylfiel bit her lip. "It's a very common elven name." She was pretty sure that Thranduil wanted to keep a low profile. They had not discussed it, but she could guess.

The old woman nodded shrewdly. "This house belongs to an elven lord named Thranduil. I was thinking he might be their king, the same one the old duffers spin yarns about in all the stories about the burning of Laketown and the great battle," she said.

"Well…" Narylfiel's voice trailed away, and she took a slow sip of broth to stall.

"I _am_ Thranduil, the Elven King of the Woodland Realm," Thranduil confirmed, coming up behind them from the front room, placing both his hands on Narylfiel's shoulders. "I am sure you can understand why I would prefer to remain anonymous."

Mara instantly dropped her head down in a bow. "Yes, your majesty," she exclaimed reverently and dared to look up, her eyes darting from Narylfiel to the tall elf lord filling up the room. Her mouth curled into a toothy smile. "My family owes you much, my lord, for your continued generosity over the years."

Thranduil dismissed the statement with a wave. "You and your husband have served many of my people faithfully for years, Mara."

"And your majesty, I am sorry that I made you undress in front of me earlier," the old woman apologized. She met Narylfiel's eyes and mouthed "Not sorry at all" to her behind her hand and winked.

"If you would please excuse us," Thranduil asked the old woman, and he took the seat across from Narylfiel at the table.

He waited until the woman closed the door behind her and then took Narylfiel's hand in his. It was still cold, but a definite improvement.

"Narylfiel," he said at last, "do you think you can ride?"

She bristled. "Of course I can ride! I feel much better."

The king shook his head woefully. "Narylfiel, it cannot last; not with the poison still in your system."

"But why would I feel better now? And not worse?" Narylfiel did not understand.

"Because I am helping sustain you through our bond," Thranduil explained softly, lacing his fingers through hers. "The closer we are, the more effective it is." He paused, looked down at the worn tabletop. "Even when I left to go to the apothecary shop, you practically went into shock. No, I do not dare leave you here."

"What if you get the medicine?" Narylfiel heard herself ask, and she concentrated on the feeling of his hand holding hers, the press of his warm palm against her own.

"Then the medicine strengthens your blood, enough so that I can finish the bond-healing." Thranduil's eyes drifted to the small kitchen window. They needed to leave soon.

"And then you would sever our bond?" Narylfiel had to know. As much as she did not like being injured, she did not relish the thought of losing him that way.

"I would, Narylfiel," he told her. "It is not a healthy connection, for either us." This sort of bond was never meant to be long-term.

She nodded but did not speak, and her eyes lingered on their hands intertwined on the green tabletop.

"Narylfiel, look at me," Thranduil commanded, but his voice was soft. "If I heal you and can sever the bond, it will not change anything about how I feel or how you feel." He squeezed her hand a little, made sure she met his eyes before he added, "And there are other and more pleasurable ways of forging a lasting bond."

He pulled her to her feet and guided her out the front door to their horse, purposefully denying her a chance to respond, other than hearing her catch her breath at that last teasing statement and feeling the shot of desire that thrummed straight through their bond.

* * *

Thranduil had procured a decent mount, strong enough to carry him and Narylfiel up the river to the main entrance of the mountain. It was no Giant Elk or even comparable to an elven bred steed, but the horse was a good-natured fellow and had sturdy, sure feet that knew the way to Erebor. Thranduil considered himself fortunate to find any mount on such short notice and told Narylfiel so.

She rode with him, one of his arms wrapped snugly around her waist. They both wore their cloaks pulled up, and the snow continued to fall, dusting them white as they traveled through the night, stopping only briefly to let their horse rest. Even then, Narylfiel noticed that her king took care to stay within arm's reach of her at all times; he continually checked her temperature, asked if she needed an extra blanket, made sure her hands were warm enough.

As they neared the mountain, Thranduil's mood grew increasingly grim and he wished that certain past misdeeds would not hinder him from being able to get the much-needed blood grass for Narylfiel.

The first guard commanded them to halt. He and the others patrolling the road to the main gate wore handsome fur hoods and gold glinted at their buckles. Their eyes were sharp and fierce, their beards, long and immaculately braided. Narylfiel, who had never met any dwarves before, was suitably impressed.

"Do not look for a warm welcome," Thranduil told her quietly, adding, "and let me do the talking."

The dwarf hissed and reached for his sword. "Elves…" Two of the other guards fitted arrows to their bows.

"We come with a message from Lord Elrond of Rivendell for King Dain," Thranduil announced.

"Well, hand it to me, and I'll see that he gets it." The dwarf's eyes narrowed and his fingers did not leave his hilt.

"I must deliver this message personally," Thranduil replied archly. "Or has the hospitality of the dwarves diminished that they leave weary travelers standing in the cold?"

Adjusting his fur lined hood, the dwarf snorted. "Better than the hospitality of the elves whose king throws weary travelers in his dungeon, or so I've been told."

Thranduil stiffened at the insult but said nothing.

The dwarf turned and went briefly to consult with his fellow guards on the matter.

"He did not recognize you," Narylfiel whispered to her king.

"No, but once we are inside and remove our cloaks, there will be others who will," he predicted. "King Dain will."

"What's to keep them from throwing you in their dungeons?" she asked quietly. "I do not like how vulnerable we are."

"Nor do I," Thranduil said softly in her ear. "But unlike Thorin Oakenshield, I have an entire army that can ride to our rescue, and King Dain knows it. No, he will be more diplomatic , although I am sure the idea will be encouraged by more than a few of his counselors."

A pair of dwarf guards returned and announced that they would escort the elves to the main doors of the mountain, made seemingly impregnable by what must have been years of Dwarven stonework and masonry. Even Thranduil noted aloud to Narylfiel that the dwarves had clearly not been idle in the years following the Battle of Five Armies, such was the advanced skill displayed in the ingenuity and artistic precision of the new main gate.

Once the elven couple had been delivered inside, their horse seen to by some dwarven lads, and ushered into the main hall, Thranduil removed his hood and instructed Narylfiel to do the same.

There were more than just a few surprised gasps as the Elven King strode proudly up to the throne, where King Dain sat and a few of his advisors and counselors looked on from the side.

"I come with a message on behalf of Imladris and the Woodland Realm," Thranduil announced, his eyes just as glittering and formidable as if he had come in his finest robes and crown, surrounded by the most elite of his Royal Guard, instead of the reality, in which he was a little travel-stained and muddy looking.

"Well met, King Thranduil." Dain's eyes crinkled under his bushy eyebrows, and the dwarf stroked his beard thoughtfully. "What brings the Elven King to Erebor in such bad weather, unannounced and unheralded?"

"War once made allies of dwarves and elves many years ago," Thranduil told him, "and now war is upon us once again." Reaching into his cloak, the Elven King produced the missive from Lord Elrond and passed it off to one of Dain's advisors, a disgruntled looking dwarf that Thranduil recognized as one of Thorin's original company.

The dwarf took the missive up to Dain to read, and in a loud whisper, suggested, "I don't know that we should trust him, Dain! He's dangerous and clearly up to something!"

"Peace, Bofur," Dain intoned and unfolded the letter to read, but some of the other dwarves standing beside the throne began to grumble and point at the Elven King.

Up to this point, Narylfiel had remained silent, standing just a little behind her king, but she could not stand idly by and hear her king defamed.

"It was my fault," she blurted out to the dwarf named Bofur.

"Narylfiel," warned Thranduil, but she moved around him.

"Miss?" Bofur was surprised to hear the she-elf speak. In fact, he had not even realized she had been standing behind the king until she had piped up, looking straight at him.

Narylfiel's words spilled out in a rush. "King Thranduil does not have any secret designs or intrigues planned I assure you! He's only here because I acted very foolishly and left his halls without his permission, thinking I could deliver the message from Lord Elrond! Only then the king heard that orcs had broken through our southern border and I was in danger, so he rode in haste to rescue me, and he did." She turned for a second to beam at Thranduil, whose mouth had straightened into a hard line at this point.

Dain and Bofur exchanged amused looks. In truth, it was rather humorous to see a lovely and earnest she-elf jumping to her lord's defense, not that he needed her help in the slightest.

Dain's nose twitched, and he tilted his head ever so slightly as he took time to study the pair before him. "Is this story true, King Thranduil?" he asked seriously, but his eyes were merry.

Thranduil shot Narylfiel a dark look. "Unfortunately, yes."

At this admission, Dain let out a hearty chuckle. "Women!" he exclaimed. "Bless 'em! There's no accounting for what notions they get into their heads." Then he fixed his gaze at Narylfiel and told her solemnly, "You should consider yourself very fortunate, young lady."

Narylfiel nodded and lowered her eyes. She knew more than he the exact truth of those words.

Then the King under the Mountain clapped his hands together. "I would like to discuss the news you have delivered, King Thranduil, but the hour grows late," he said and directed a little smile at Narylfiel. "Your young lady could do with a goodnight's rest, I'd wager." Dain turned to give directions to some of his staff to provide for the needs of his elven guests.

"She was poisoned," Thranduil interrupted, his voice hard like the edge of dwarven masonry. A careless observer might have guessed that the Elven King was extremely angry at this turn of events, but Dain was shrewd and caught the way the other king's eyes softened as he glanced at her. No, not angry—distressed and anxious perhaps. It was a side of the usually polished Elven king that few ever beheld.

"Poisoned?" asked Dain, sharing a worried look with Bofur.

Thranduil frowned as he recalled how he had struggled to draw out the dark sinuous liquid from Narylfiel's wound. "The orcs have improved their craft it seems," he said bitterly.

The dwarf king's brows furrowed into a deep crease. "Bofur, see this young lady to the healer's ward."

Bofur nodded and gallantly offered his arm to Narylfiel. Unsure, she glanced up at Thranduil, who nodded his permission for her to go.

Bofur lightly patted her arm as he steered her away. "Sneaking out of your King's halls and getting attacked by orcs and being poisoned? Sounds like you have had quite the adventure, my lady."

Narylfiel shrugged, still unsure on how to feel about him, despite his fairly jolly countenance as navigated the spacious halls of the Mountain and greeted fellow dwarfs along the way.

"Here we are!" announced Bofur brightly. "We'll get you fixed up, dearie." He showed her into a room. "I'll go get someone for you."

Narylfiel surveyed the room, noting its dark blue accents, and took a seat on a finely polished bench. She wished Thranduil had come with her and wondered if he would find her. Pressing her hand over her heart, she tried to concentrate on the feeling of her bond with him. Worrying her lower lip, Narylfiel did not want to think about losing her connection with him; even if what the king said made complete logical sense, she dreaded him severing their bond and the subsequent loss of his golden sunshiny warmth, his comfort. Thranduil said it was for the best, Narylfiel reminded herself, but she could not see how.

Bofur popped back into the room. "I brought you a blanket," he told her, flapping it out and then draping it over her. "The healer went to find you some medicine." He plopped down on a bench on the other side of the room and stretching his legs out, crossed his ankles.

"How are you feeling?" he asked her, his eyes kind.

"Tired," Narylfiel answered honestly and pressed her hand over her heart again.

"King Dain won't mind me telling you this—we have had four of our younger warriors poisoned over the last two months of patrols." Bofur shook his head.

"Did they...did they all recover, I hope?"

He nodded. "Aye, they did, and I came in when they brought the first one here; young warrior, hadn't even grown in a full beard yet. He was screaming, just screaming, and clawing at his leg where they'd cut him, the poison already black in his veins."

Narylfiel looked distinctly uncomfortable and pulled up the blanket a little higher.

"I didn't say all that to frighten you," Bofur said, looking abashed. "I just meant to point out what a tough little thing you are!"

"She is a 'tough little thing,' through and through," a voice said from the door, and Narylfiel instantly perked up.

"King Thranduil," she chimed, the relief evident in her voice.

Thranduil stood at the door beside a white-haired dwarf holding a medicine cup and some bandages.

"Well, I'll leave you to it," Bofur said, waving to Narylfiel but completely avoiding any eye contact with Thranduil. "Feel better!" he called from the door.

The healer bade Narylfiel to lie down on the bed, which was admittedly a little short for her—she had to curl up her legs to keep them from hanging over the end. With Thranduil looking on, she pulled up her tunic enough that the healer could examine the injury to her side. He gently unwrapped the bandage and tsked as he examined the cut and cleaned around the edges where the poison had blackened her skin.

"Very similar, King Thranduil," he observed, "the darkening of the skin and veins around the wound, the color of the discharge. If I had to guess, I would say that this is the same poison that nearly killed a few of our boys."

The healer turned and walked briskly over to a little work table, in which he poured the powdery contents of a packet into the medicine cup he had brought with him earlier. "Powdered blood grass," he told Thranduil, as he picked up a stirring rod and swirled the contents until the liquid took on a dark red hue. "Just as you said. So far, we've had the most success using it against this particular poison." The healer brought the cup over to Naryfliel and instructed her to drink it slowly.

Thranduil nodded his agreement, and Narylfiel could feel his relief through their bond.

The healer fixed his eyes on Thranduil, "It is curious to me, King Thranduil, that a king and a warrior—yes, I've heard the stories—should also know so much about the healing arts. If you hadn't worked your elf magic on this young lady earlier, she would have surely died without getting any medicine."

Thranduil glanced at Narylfiel as she pursed her lips to sip her medicine. Blood grass tasted horrible—very pungent, and the smell was less than appealing—and she would have to drink the entire cup. But he was thankful, so grateful, that she should have it, so he smiled graciously at the dwarf before him. In truth, Thranduil had always enjoyed learning about herbs and healing, and told the dwarf so. "I am not so practiced in Elvish medicine as Lord Elrond, but I have learned enough to be a help to my people. When she finishes the medicine, I will attempt to draw the rest of the poison out. I am…very grateful for your king's hospitality and the blood grass to heal her."

Meanwhile, Narylfiel continued to drink, her knuckles white as she gripped the cup and forced herself to swallow.

The healer reminded her to make sure she drank the entire cup and then excused himself, asking that Thranduil might bring her back to the ward tomorrow for a check-up.

"Oh, I thought he would never leave," exclaimed Narylfiel, her lips stained red from the medicine. "This stuff is the nastiest thing I have ever tasted!"

"You are very fortunate to have the nasty stuff," Thranduil reminded her. "Only for you would I willingly subject myself to the torture of dwarven hospitality."

She smiled up at him and took another wretched sip. "Eugh."

"Come," Thranduil told her. "We have some rooms, 'man-sized' rooms as one of the dwarves informed me, and you can finish your lovely tonic there."

* * *

Thranduil drew her into the first room, which thankfully did have appropriately sized furniture—so much better than the tiny bed in the healing ward!

"We will stay in here," the elven king said, his fair face showing the tiniest smidge of approval of the nicely appointed room, clearly made up for the more important guests that came to stay in Erebor.

"We? What we?" Narylfiel looked up from her noxious drink, her eyes drifting from Thranduil's handsome visage to the decadently made up bed behind him.

"Yes, we—we, because I am not letting you out of my sight or reach until I finish healing you and remove this bond," he informed her as he crossed the room to investigate the sideboard by the fireplace.

"Oh," the elven king sighed happily. "Now here is some medicine that Thranduil desperately needed!"

Narylfiel turned, cup still in hand, to see her king pouring himself a full goblet of dark, red wine.

"Dorwinion!" he pronounced the word like a prayer and lifted the glass toward Narylfiel. "Here is to healing you properly and returning to the palace!"

"Cheers," grumbled Narylfiel as pinched her nose and took another horrible sip of the sludgy medicine.

"Now, now," Thranduil chided her, his mood much brightened by his discovery. With glass in hand, he buoyantly explored the rest of the room, which even he, fueled by the liquid comfort of his Dorwinion, had to admit was pretty nice. He peered into a room drawn off to the side, lit some candles within, and reappeared, grinning.

"Oh, Narylfiel," he teased her, "you'll want to finish that medicine quickly!"

"Why? What did you find?" she asked tiredly, and she really thought the medicine might be making her even drowsier.

"They've drawn us a bath," Thranduil said, his blue eyes sparkling in the lamplight, "and the water is still warm."

Still watching her across the room, he unbuckled his belt, loosened his scabbard, and gently set them on the table by the door. Then he reached for his jerkin and unticked the clasps one by one, sat down on the bed and drew off his boots. When he reached for his tunic and shrugged it off, leaving it on the coverlet, he turned and looked at Narylfiel over his shoulder, his long hair spilling down his finely corded back. "I will be in here, if you need me," he said.

Her head swimming, and not just from the medicine, Narylfiel pinched her nose again and downed the rest of her medicine in one long gulp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear! Seems like we've reached the end of this chapter!
> 
> Thranduil: #ButIWasJustGettingWarmedUp #BubbleBath
> 
> Narylfiel: #Gulp
> 
> Please leave Kudos, Comment, and Subscribe!
> 
> Will Narylfiel ever finish her medicine? Does Thranduil use up all the good shampoo and conditioner? and more importantly, will he be able to finish healing Narylfiel and sever that healer's bond? Plus, more dwarfy goodness to come in the next chapter! Are there any of Thorin's original company that you're dying to see? I'm taking requests!


	13. Patient

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes Thranduil really hates himself...

_Three thousand years ago…_

_Hair sticking to the back of his neck and slightly out of breath, Thranduil lay in the dark, and the room was utterly silent, save for the sound of his uneven breathing and his wife's quiet exhale. His wife. He could still very faintly hear the remaining party guests from his wedding finishing the wine in the Great Hall, and now he was bonded, married._

_His wife lay curled up beside him, but in a fortnight's time, he would be marching with his father and the sum of his army to the War of the Last Alliance. He closed his eyes and found the beginning spark of his marriage bond, like a single candle flickering in a long hall. His father had told him these things could take time._

_He touched her shoulder. "Elarien," he whispered her name and thought himself blessed by the Valar to wed such a beautiful creature. Her hair, like fields of gold in the sun's dying light, fell in perfect waves to her waist. Thranduil picked up an errant strand lying across her bare back and marveled at the weight of it; he tentatively ran his hand through the rest of her hair._

" _Not yet, Thranduil." Elarien's voice was weary. That she was tired, Thranduil could understand; the evening's activities had been strenuous to say the least, not to mention their bonding. Smiling to himself at the memory, he ran a finger across her shoulder, down her arm, awed by the softness there._

" _I love you," he whispered, and when she did not return in kind, he resolved not to let it bother him. He was patient. He could wait._

* * *

November, 3018:

Thranduil stretched and then squeezed the water from his hair. He felt positively elvish and much restored from all of his recent traveling and the hassle of having to deal with the dwarves. Of course, he did not have a change of clothes with him, so he dried off quickly and pulled his leggings back on. Peeking through the door, he noted with a smile that Narylfiel had fallen into a deep, healing sleep with her eyes closed—more like passed out from the hefty dose of blood grass the dwarves provided. He thought she might; the old healer had given her enough to knock out a full sized stocky dwarf, and Narylfiel was such a tiny slip of a thing. It was for the best. She needed her rest, and he would be able to finish the bond-healing.

Thranduil studied her, his eyes drawn to the way her brown hair curled across the coverlet like warm silk and the redness of her lips, darkened from the blood grass. He pulled a blanket over her, hesitated, and reached for her hand, still clutching the empty medicine cup. Taking the cup from her fingers to set it aside, he laced his fingers through hers and felt a guilty pleasure at the surge of the bond between them. Thranduil could not think of anything to compare the feeling to, except perhaps taking a long, slow sip of miruvor, and the way the cordial warmed his whole body from the inside out and left him feeling renewed, stronger. He reminded himself that he needed to break the bond after healing her, reminded himself that he could not allow it to continue, but in the stillness of the room—and only for a minute, he told himself!—he sank down on the bed next to her and let himself hold her hand, relishing the feel of her skin velvety against his palm.

He marveled that this should have happened to him, to her. She was such a young, bright spirit, so joyful and fresh, and he was…not. Compared to her, he was as ancient as the dark, twisted trees that grew in the deeps of the forest, and his heart had seen much of despair and bitterness; he would move his entire army to shield her from the kind of suffering and loss he had known. Narylfiel had become infinitely precious to him, not just from the revelation of her feelings for him, but for the sum of all she had been to him, ever since the day she had sat down for tea with him the first time as a young elleth and coolly explained how she planned on making a match between his son and her sister. She never failed to surprise him.

He wrapped his long fingers around her slim hand and lazily rubbed his thumb against the soft inside of her wrist. Thranduil sighed and closed his eyes. Only for a little while longer, he reminded himself. Oh, how he had fallen. His father had always warned him he was too soft-hearted, too sensitive. Not that different from his own sweet son, his Legolas, Thranduil thought wryly.

Thranduil forced himself to open his eyes, to let go. He would not think of Oropher, not now. Now would he wonder about Legolas and his safety. Some hurts ran too deep.

He stood up and brushed his fingers over Narylfiel's forehead. Her temperature had already greatly improved; his fingers glided down to her neck; her pulse was much stronger, steadier and even. He picked up her hand again.

Placing his other hand over her heart, Thranduil breathed deeply, exhaled, and focused on the warmth of her skin, feeling her heart beat, hearing her quiet breathing over the crackle of the fire on the hearth. He closed his eyes and reached out through their bond, feeling the delicate arch like a bridge spanning the space between them, and he prayed. His voice, low and resonant, Thranduil murmured words of healing and sustenance to Narylfiel, to the Valar, and he felt the hiss of heat surge from her to him, from him to her. Invoking the power of the Valar to mend her wound and cleanse the rest of the poison from her veins, the elven king channeled his grace and power across the shimmering network of tiny threads binding his feä to hers. This time the poison, weakened by the blood grass, burned away, until no taint remained. Already Narylfiel felt so much stronger to him, brighter, more effervescent.

The healing complete, he relaxed, and their bond bloomed warm under his hand, from his arm up to his heart, a thick pleasant pulse. Thranduil thrilled to the feeling of their connection—the depth and richness of it, seemingly so much more than just a simple healer's bond, and definitely more compelling than his first marriage's bond, which had been so shallow, transient…disappointing.

Briefly, Thranduil contemplated what it would be like to wake Narylfiel and tell her he had changed his mind, to pull her into his arms and keep her there for the rest of the night. He wouldn't, of course, but the temptation was there. The desire certainly was there, but between Narylfiel and him, it had become abundantly clear that he was going to have to be the practical one. He would not create a situation where anyone could claim that he took advantage of her or forced her into a bond she did not want.

Thranduil knew from experience that his personal life needed to be above reproach from any of his court, or Eru forbid, his family. He was intensely private about keeping his personal matters personal. He shuddered slightly to think what Thaliniel or Legolas might say if they knew what had happened. Only right now, they did not know, and this thing that had grown between him and Narylfiel, their relationship, was their own.

If Thranduil was honest with himself, he knew that talk was inevitable. He was the king. People talked about him. Members of his court would speculate, or probably have already speculated about his friendship with Narylfiel. He would have to be careful. Narylfiel was well loved in the palace; he intended to keep it that way.

With strengthened resolve, Thranduil focused once more on the steady hum of their combined song knitted through the shining strands of their feäs—hers, bright and joyful, lapping at the edges of his, which flowed steadily on like a cool, dark river coursing through moss-green banks of his forest—the love and trust radiating from his young friend staggered him. Oh, he knew that she did not want him to break their bond, and he hated the thought of hurting her or making her feel as if he did not care. He did care, very much!

Already had he let this healing bond go on for far too long.

So with the greatest care he reached out and tore away the delicate connections between them. One by one, up to the last shining strand, until each was left loose and fluttering. With a pang in his heart, Thranduil felt a cold emptiness from the loss of her.

Still Narylfiel slept on, Thranduil observed with some relief, until he noticed the fine line of moisture beading the dark fringe of her lashes and starting to spill down her cheeks. He gently wiped them away, feeling the hot track of her tears as if they were his. His hand drifted to his cheek and found it wet.

Thranduil angrily swiped at his eyes and cursed himself for being so foolishly weak, knowing this was who he was away from the throne, away from his court, away from the demands of the crown. He had always been deeply sensitive, much to the horror of his fierce father. Oropher had tried his very best to groom and train that aspect of his son's personality out of him, so Thranduil had learned to conceal that part of himself, to stow it far behind a cold and ruthless front. After his father's death, after Dagorlad, as the slow weight of leadership settled over his shoulders like an oversized mantle, Thranduil began to push away anyone who could hurt him. The Elven King of the Woodland Realm could ill afford to be vulnerable. His friends. His wife. Even Legolas, Thranduil realized regretfully. Narylfiel had been different from the very beginning. She stubbornly refused to be pushed away, no matter how much he tried. He thought of the time after the dwarves escaped and he spitefully tried to get rid of her. Still she stayed. His eyes drifted over to her.

Ai! He needed to pull it together. Tomorrow, Dain and his dwarf advisors would look for a meeting with him.

Thranduil lightly brushed his fingers across the top of her hand. _Nothing_. He had severed their bond, had ripped through every single part of the precious filigree.

Sometimes he really hated himself.

He strode over to the bar, grabbed the bottle of wine, and then stopped himself. It was not like he was some uncouth dwarf here. Honestly, it would be a bleak day in Middle Earth when Thranduil settled for drinking his wine straight from the bottle. He reached for a glass, inspected it for unsightly smudges, and then poured himself a very generous amount. Glass in hand, Thranduil sprawled out in front of the fireplace close to the hearth, letting the fire dry his hair. That bond was only a temporary measure, he reminded himself.

* * *

In the early hours of the morning, Narylfiel woke with a start, her eyes wide and her heart pounding. Thranduil reached her side before she could call for him.

"How do you feel?" he asked carefully, folding her hand in his.

Tentatively she pressed her other hand to heart and frowned a little as her eyes moved to the careful way he held her hand. "You finished the healing," she said, willing herself not to cry, not to become upset in front of him. "You severed the bond." Her words spilled out like an accusation.

"I did," said Thranduil, and his eyes, although kind, were unapologetic.

She nodded and slowly sat up, swinging her feet off the bed. "I did not mean to fall asleep," she said, keeping her eyes fixed on her hands in her lap. "I meant to…"

She did not finish her sentence, and her cheeks pinkened.

"Drowsiness is a side-effect of the blood grass," Thranduil told her, "and you needed to rest, Narylfiel. Thankfully, I was able to draw the rest of the poison out."

Pushing herself off the bed, Narylfiel found that she was still a little unsteady on her feet. "I think that I would like to clean up a little," she said.

"The water will be cold by now, but I could have them bring some more," Thranduil suggested.

"No, I would not want to be a bother," she replied quickly and excused herself, closing the door to the bathing room firmly behind her.

Thranduil stared after her, blinking after she shut the door in his face. Well, that conversation went better than he supposed it would. He had been more upset than she was; perhaps all of his worry had been for nothing. Narylfiel always had been very independent, very resilient.

Still…Thranduil wondered at her reaction as he settled onto the bed and leaned back on the pillows against the headboard. His ears picked up the muffled noise of her moving around in the next room, pouring water into the washbasin. Then he heard the unmistakable sound of a sniffle and then another…

Thranduil sat up. With a growing sense of dismay, he eased off the bed and crept toward the bathing chamber.

He gently tapped on the door. "Narylfiel, are you well?"

No answer. More sniffles.

Thranduil tapped again, growing more concerned. "Narylfiel—"

"I am _fine_ , Thranduil. Just…washing up." From behind the door, her voice sounded strained.

He crossed his arms, leaned up against the doorframe. By now, he was almost certain she was, in fact, crying, and obviously desired to do so privately. Thranduil only thought he knew how to handle difficult situations and artfully employ diplomacy to ease conflicts. Nothing in his long life had prepared him for this.

"Narylfiel," he began carefully, wishing he could just break down the door and sweep her into his arms. He had a feeling that might not go over so well. "Narylfiel, you have every reason to feel upset, to feel hurt. I hope you know that I would never think less of you for how your feelings."

There was a long pause, and then: "I know you only acted for the best. I—I did not want you to think worse of me, for crying like a child."

Thranduil rested his forehead against the door, traced the finely carved wooden panels with the tip of his finger. "If you are upset, I want to comfort you—what has changed between us that you cannot look to me for comfort? I have seen you cry before, Narylfiel."

"What has changed?" Her voice was quiet, and he heard the pad of quiet steps to the door, the turn of the knob. Then her face, lovely and heart-broken, fresh-scrubbed as though she had tried to erase any evidence of her crying, peered up at him. "Everything has changed."

And the quiet desperation in her voice combined with the sight of her liquid brown eyes struck his heart with all the force of a dwarf's hammer.

"No. Maybe," he admitted, pulling her into his arms, kissing the top of her head as he had so many times throughout their friendship. "Our relationship will change, but—" He broke off mid-sentence, frustrated when the right words would not come, and pulled away from her, tipping up her chin to make her meet his eyes.

"I want you to know, Narylfiel, that breaking my healer's bond with you was one of the harder things I have ever had to make myself do," the king told her.

She blinked and then wiped her eyes again. "Knowing what you have done, I find that rather difficult to believe, your highness."

Thranduil's lips curled at her retort and he steered her over to the warmth of the fire, where both of them sat down upon the large stone hearth.

"Narylfiel, you are so warm, so loving and spirited, and everything about you that drew me to this friendship, I could feel through our bond—of course, I wanted to keep it." He lifted his hand to cup her cheek and then combed the hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. "But I knew that I could not, because I would not take advantage of you…because making that bond had been solely my decision, not yours."

"The decision might not have been mutual, but that does not have to mean I wanted the bond any less," she told him, her hand unconsciously straying to her heart, still aching from the loss of him.

"I know, but still—I would not take that choice from you, nor would I have the memory of our joining be one-sided." He drew her hand away from her heart to his mouth and pressed the soft inside of her wrist to his lips for a single scorching kiss, and his eyes darkened.

The fire crackled again as Narylfiel flushed from her cheeks to her ears and down her neck.

A slow smile crept over his face, and he languidly traced the pattern of heat with his finger from her cheek and on down her neck, which only made Narylfiel blush more.

Thranduil leaned in and gently pressed his lips to the soft curve of her neck. "I want you," he said and pressed another kiss right below her ear. "But here is neither the time, nor the place. You deserve a proper courtship, and I am patient. I can wait."

Narylfiel nodded, even though her emotions were a riot of frustration and longing. She then did something that she had longed to do, ever since she had first met him—when her eyes had first caught that fall of silvery-gold hair. She reached for him and softly ran her hands over the back of his head and combed her fingers through his hair, still a little damp from his bath earlier.

She played with the ends a little, just as he had done with hers before, smoothing out the long strands down his back and against his chest, until Thranduil caught her hand. "If you keep on, I'll have absolutely no will power left at all," he said, with a gleam in his eye.

"What if I kissed you?" Narylfiel teased and defiantly ran her hand through his hair again for good measure. "What then?"

Thranduil captured her hand in his and smirked a little. "We already dream-kissed, and you saw what happened then!" Even thinking about that dream did evil things to him.

"Dream-kisses do _not_ count," she protested and pouted a little.

He pulled her in a little closer. "Do they not?"

"No," she said, her voice suddenly going soft with anticipation.

From the front of their room, a horrible banging racket interrupted their moment. Both elves' heads snapped in unison toward the door.

Thranduil's eyes narrowed. "I really hate dwarves," he muttered and stood. He took his time walking over to the door, even though the loud knocking only grew louder. The elven king looked apologetically back at Narylfiel, still perched by the fireplace, and swung the door open.

It was that meddlesome dwarf Bofur.

"King Dain has called a meeting of his council. He has requested your presence, King Thranduil."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I did not manage to get very much dwarfy action into this chapter, but next chapter will feature more of Bofur along with Dain's council. And oh dear, it seems that Thranduil will not be in a very good mood. He hates being interrupted.
> 
> Thranduil: #DamnDwarves
> 
> Narylfiel: #Ditto
> 
> Please leave Kudos, Comment, and Bookmark! Maybe Thranduil will be in a more amiable mood and could maybe forgive Bofur's untimely interruption and not have to kill him at once.
> 
> Bofur: #IveGotABadFeelingAboutThis


	14. Impulsive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil and Narylfiel have a ‘lost in translation’ moment with the dwarves...

_Not long after having moved into the palace, Narylfiel made it her business to explore the Elvenking's halls. Of course, she had been taken on a tour of sorts by Galadhor, the king's chief of staff, which was all very well if you_ only _wanted to know where the grand dining hall and throne room were. Needless to say, the young elleth spent days upon days canvasing the winding paths of Thranduil's halls; it became one of her chief delights and greatest pleasures, only to be exceeded by the time she spent in the king's own company, in which many occasions she would report back to him all that she had seen. He knew all of which she had to say, naturally—it was his own home after all—but her excitement to share her discoveries soon became the highlight of the king's tea time._

_On one such outing Narylfiel came upon a closed set of tall doors at the far end of a long hall on the southern side of the palace. The elf maiden looked around and behind her and then carefully tried the overly large door handle. It was not locked, so she nudged it open, just enough to let a beam of light from the hall strike across the dark room. What she saw inside stole her breath away._

_A bevy of portraits twice her height gleamed rich with color and detail on the walls. Narylfiel cautiously crept inside for a closer look. At first she mistook the largest one on the opposite end of the hall for King Thranduil—the elf in the picture looked so similar, with the same golden-white hair, the shape of the eyes, and yes, even the eyebrows—but little differences made Narylfiel guess that the elf in the picture must be the former king, Oropher. The painting was so artfully done that Narylfiel wondered why such beautiful pictures would be hidden away. Then she saw another painting across the room, only someone had draped a cloth over it, which had partially slid off._

_Ever the inquisitive elf, Narylfiel immediately went to it, peeked under the cloth, gasped, and then pulled the cover completely off. Now this was undoubtedly a portrait of the Elvenking, and Narylfiel marveled at how lifelike—how real he seemed—as if the elf in the picture might turn and look at her any second. The painting Thranduil, however, was not looking directly out from the picture. No, his gaze was drawn to another figure in the painting, an elleth so achingly lovely, so exquisite in feature and form that Narylfiel found herself staring. She was Thranduil's queen, Legolas' mother. Narylfiel thought she had never seen any elf so beautiful, but even so, she found her eyes drawn back to the king and the look in his eyes. It was clear that he absolutely adored her._

" _Narylfiel." A voice from the door made her turn, and she sheepishly met the friendly eyes of Galadhor._

_He came into the room, shook the dust from the cover and replaced the cloth back over the portrait. His eyes briefly scanned the portraits in the hall as if reminding himself, and when he turned to address Narylfiel, she thought he looked a little sad._

" _Narylfiel, you are a member of the king's household now. He would want you to feel welcome anywhere in his home, but the Hall of Portraits has been closed away for now," Galadhor said. His eyes were kind, but firm._

" _Is it okay to ask why?" she inquired in a small voice, taking the hand that Galadhor offered to lead her from the room._

" _Our king has lost much…" his voice trailed away as he pulled the door shut, and this time, produced a key and locked it. "This room held too many memories. King Thranduil did not like to be reminded."_

_Narylfiel sucked in her lower lip. Poor King Thranduil! He was too good, too wonderful to be unhappy. She vowed right away to cheer him up. Then casting her long-fringed brown eyes back up to Galadhor, she asked "But what about the queen? What happened to her? She is so beautiful!"_

_Galadhor only shook his head and countered, "I would ask you not to speak of her, Narylfiel. Especially do not mention her to the king. There are some things which are better off forgotten."_

_And that was how Narylfiel learned not to speak of the queen. When she later joined her king for tea, and Thranduil inquired if her explorations turned up anything remarkable, she only shook her head 'no.' It was the first time she willfully kept something from him._

_But not the last._

* * *

November, 3018:

Thranduil swung open the door, eyes glittering coolly. "Could you knock louder, dwarf? I do not believe they could hear you in Gondor yet."

The dwarf, wearing a very silly hat, took a step back and then narrowed his eyes at the Elvenking. Thranduil was almost sure it was the same impertinent one from yesterday. If only all dwarves did not look the same!

"King Dain requests the honor of your presence in the Council Chamber," the dwarf announced.

A muscle ticked in Thranduil's jaw. He would much rather not go, thinking of Narylfiel warm and blushing by the fire, but alas, the sooner he met with Dain, then the sooner they could be on their way.

"Lead the way then," the Elvenking said austerely. Even in his plain traveling clothes, he could still intimidate and if last night's interview with the dwarf king had ended embarrassingly thanks to Narylfiel's interruption, Thranduil could take control of the situation today. His relationship with the dwarf king had dramatically improved since the days of the Battle of the Five Armies, but it would never hurt to remind the dwarves how dangerous wood elves could be…diplomatically, of course.

Bofur and Thranduil turned the corner in the wide stone hallway and were intercepted by another dwarf with a strangely marked bald head, who stood taller than Bofur.

"Well met, Dwalin," Bofur greeted him merrily, and Thranduil barely kept himself from rolling his eyes at the pair's enthusiastic greeting which included an over-abundance of uncouth pounding on each other's backs. "We are just on our way to the Council Chamber."

"Where is the she-elf?" Dwalin inquired stonily. "Dain expressly asked that she attend as well." Both of the dwarves turned and looked expectantly at the Elvenking.

Thranduil swallowed a groan. Of course, Dain would want her there. Narylfiel had already proved herself most entertaining at their last encounter. "She rests and should not be disturbed," he told them firmly.

"Our lord commands it," Dwalin said. He had the nerve to turn and go back down the hall toward the elves' rooms.

Thranduil reminded himself that these dwarves were beneath his notice; he refused to let himself become upset at their insolence. The dwarves stopped at the room, the one arranged for Narylfiel, across the hall from the Elvenking's and pounded at the door. Thranduil smirked. Now if only Narylfiel would not open the door from his room to see what all the commotion was about.

"As I said," Thranduil told them. "She rests. She was very ill from the poison."

Of course, Narylfiel chose that exact moment to poke her head out the door from Thranduil's room.

"Oh!" she exclaimed to see the dwarves' surprised faces and Thranduil's less-than-pleased one. "Hello again!" she greeted Bofur, stepping out into the hall. The open door revealed an obviously slept-in bed.

Both the dwarves exchanged glances. Bofur's eyes darted to Thranduil and then back to Narylfiel, taking in her rosy cheeks and tousled hair. The dwarf frowned at the Elvenking. "Are you feeling better, my lady?" he asked politely.

Narylfiel smiled and shyly glanced at her Elvenking. "Yes, thank you."

"King Dain requests that both of his elven guests attend his Council Chamber," Dwalin said, his posture rigid, glaring up at the Elvenking through his bushy eyebrows.

"How delightful," Narylfiel said, but her enthusiasm faded as soon as she glimpsed the firm set of her king's mouth and his cold eyes.

The king's Council Chamber was grandly appointed in a hall of immense stone columns and flying arches. A cluster of dwarves all flocked around one end of an enormous table with tall angular chairs that gleamed with gold accents. They all straightened and returned to their seats upon the entrance of the elves into the room, and Dain sat imposingly at the end of the table. His hooded eyes gleamed when they caught sight of Narylfiel coming in behind Thranduil.

"Ah, lassie!" he crowed and beckoned for her to come forward to him. "Are you feeling much repaired now?"

Unsure, Narylfiel met Thranduil's eyes, and he gave a small nod. She moved from his side and when she came to stand next to Dain's opulent seat, Narylfiel informed him that the blood grass medicine left her feeling quite improved and she was so very grateful for his majesty's hospitality.

Dain nodded, his bearded mouth curving into a smile. "Glad to hear it!" he told her, his voice warm, but his eyes hardened when they looked upon the Elvenking. "Now to business," he instructed, motioning for his guests to take a seat at the far end of the table on the opposite end from his advisors. "Let us speak candidly, King Thranduil."

Thranduil waved his hand dismissively. "By all means, please do so."

Dain continued. "Several months ago, some of our people left for Rivendell. Lord Elrond had called for a council."

Thranduil nodded. "My son also attended that meeting," he said.

"Even so," Dain allowed, "we had a curious visitor this summer, before the meeting—a shrouded figure in a black cloak. He offered peaceful terms from Sauron himself; if we could give him information about the hobbit that once travelled with Thorin's company, then we would receive his lord's favor."

Thranduil arched an eyebrow. This was news to him and boded ill for the hobbit, whom the elf remembered quite fondly, even if he had helped his prisoners escape! The little fellow had a good heart, better than most in these dark times.

"Lord Elrond believes war is upon us," he told Dain, standing to reach toward the map spread across the table. "We have already been attacked on our southern border." He languidly pointed to the locations of the most recent attacks.

Dain frowned, his dark eyes meeting Thranduil's. "Lord Elrond believes…but what do you believe?"

Thranduil sighed, his fair face troubled. He was immensely fond of clever speeches, but in this moment, he could only speak plainly. Sauron, rising again to power—the memory of his father, slain in the mud of Dagorlad, and for what end?—no, for once Thranduil abandoned all pretense in the company of dwarves, and his usually melodic voice was not so melodic.

"Even now the enemy tests the strength of our borders. Someone, also a cloaked figure, has been buying large quantities of poison in Dale, poison that has been tested on both our peoples." His eyes drifted to Narylfiel and softened, a fact that did not go unnoticed by Dain. "Yes, it is only a matter of time." He looked up resolutely. "But the Woodland Realm will be prepared, and our defenses will not fail. The elves will hold the South, if Erebor will defend against the East."

Dain nodded thoughtfully as his advisors burst into noisy conversation about the Elvenking's proposal. The East was a dry and forbidding land, and its people, fierce warriors. Yes, it could be a distinct possibility that the Easterners could ally with the forces of Mordor.

In the midst of all the discussion between the advisors, Dwalin, to Dain's left, gestured angrily to the Elvenking. "He cannot be trusted to keep his word, King Dain! He has no honor!"

Down the table, Narylfiel heard Dwalin's loud whisper and gasped. "You know him not," she declared fiercely, her brown eyes widening at the insult.

"I know enough," declared Dwalin to the table. "Any man or elf that would take advantage of a young female in his charge is without honor!" Beside him, Bofur nodded darkly.

"I hardly need to explain myself to _you_ , dwarf," Thranduil answered coldly, his posture going rigid.

"She was in _his_ room. Slept in _his_ bed!" Dwalin hotly informed the council, and Thranduil stood, ready to leave. He would not stay to be insulted by ill-bred dwarves.

Narylfiel, however, was livid. "Take advantage!" she scoffed. "Of course I slept in his bed, but only so he could perform a healing trance with my fëa."

The dwarves were collectively horrified. "You've got no business touching her fëa!" Dwalin shouted at Thranduil, jumping from his chair to point a meaty fist at the elf.

Dain barked out a command in dwarvish, effectively silencing the room, and the other dwarves returned to their seats. He repeated it directly to Dwalin, who glared at Thranduil and huffily sat back down.

"Your business is your own, Elvenking," Dain said, "however…inappropriate. We can still be allies. Erebor will hold against the East."

Thranduil could not leave fast enough. He gave King Dain a brief version of an elven bow. "Come, Narylfiel," Thranduil said, glad that his hair covered his ears and neck, both of which were probably bright red. Mortified, in this case, would not be strong enough of a word.

Moments later in the stables, Narylfiel voiced her surprise at the confusion in the Council Chamber. "I don't suppose they understood what fëa meant, Thranduil," she said meekly after the king lifted her onto the back of his horse.

"No, I do not suppose they did," Thranduil agreed amusedly as he checked the horse's tack. At least now he could see the humor in the situation, now that some fourteen dwarves were not staring him down like a debaucher of young innocent women.

"What did they think I meant?..." Narylfiel wondered under her breath, and Thranduil heard her and laughed, and the dwarves in the stables all halted their business at the sound of it—laughter, from the Elvenking—rich and merry, and so unlike anything they had ever heard or known of him. From the main door, Bofur heard his laughter and smiled a little, as if a question he'd been wondering about had just been answered.

The ride from Erebor to the Elvenking's halls could not be easily made in a single day's journey, and Narylfiel was secretly glad. She liked having him all to herself and feared that she might lose whatever ground she had gained with him during their trip, but those fears were slightly assuaged when they stopped and he helped her dismount from the horse into his arms. Of course she was completely capable of dismounting on her own, but she certainly was not opposed to him helping her, especially if such help ended in his embrace. He held her to him for a minute before pressing a kiss to the top of her hair and slowly letting go.

"Narylfiel, what am I going to do with you?" he wondered aloud.

"I can think of a few suggestions," she teased, and he shook his head at her as he left to collect enough tinder for a small fire. Narylfiel enjoyed watching him. For a king, he was surprisingly handy at living off the trail. When she mentioned this to him, he reminded her that he had not always been king of the Woodland Realm. Once upon a time, he had enjoyed other pursuits like traveling and hunting. In fact, he immensely preferred those happy occupations over stuffy councils.

"I still cannot think of the dwarven war meeting without shuddering," he admitted as he pulled a bedroll and a blanket from their bag. "You cannot just blurt out whatever wild thing pops into your head, Narylfiel."

"I know," she said, chagrined, "but I could not stand to hear them malign you like that." Narylfiel took the items from him and spread them out on the ground. They had found a relatively dry patch beneath the trees to rest that was relatively sheltered from the wind gusting down off the mountains.

Thranduil sat down with his back resting against the tree and stretched his long legs out across the blanket. He then patted the spot next to him for his lady to join him. "It just takes practice, Narylfiel," he assured her, putting his arm around her so she might lean into his shoulder. "If you are going to be queen one day—"

Narylfiel stiffened immediately and cut him off. "What? No!" she said automatically.

Thranduil regarded her carefully, the glow from the fire bathing her face golden and warm against the cold night air. "My little spark," he said, "ever impulsive… Have you not considered what bonding with me would mean?"

"Well…" her voice trailed away, as her eyes darted up to see him studying her, the faintest amusement curling up the corners of his mouth.

"I _am_ the king, Narylfiel," he reminded her.

"I know that—it's just not the first thing I think about when I'm with you." she told him. She stretched her hands out in front of her and studied them, how plain they were—showing the beginnings of calluses from her time in the guard—certainly nothing like queen's hands should be.

Thranduil saw her look at them and frown, and suddenly he remembered her ring, the one he had given her so long ago. He had found it on her dresser after she had run away, and now he pulled it from his pocket. Taking her hand in his, he slid the ring onto her finger and met her eyes. "I could guess what you are thinking right now, Narylfiel, but I would rather you tell me."

She drew in her breath at his gesture, and the pink returned to her cheeks. Still, she did not speak at first and instead looked away. Thranduil could tell she was thinking, even if he hardly knew of what; he could tell by the way she worried her lower lip. He had seen her do it before many times over and knew better than to press her for an answer.

She lifted her eyes to his and said: "Don't I always tell you what I'm thinking and probably too often at that? But right now, I hardly know what to think—I'm a jumble of thoughts, not least of all that I am not exactly queen material." She admired her ring for a second, wondering how it had come to be in his possession. He always surprised her, and it was usually his attention to the little things that she appreciated about him most. "I—" she hesitated, bit her lip again—"I just want to be with you."

"I want that too," Thranduil's reply was automatic and a little grave, with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. "But it comes with choices, choices you may not wish to make. We would marry. You would be my queen, and that is not an easy decision, certainly not one you should rush into making."

Narylfiel shook her head, wanting to reassure him. "I do not care about any of that, Thranduil, not if it means—"

He cut her off. "You say that now, but I would not have you walk into this blindly, not understanding the full cost to you personally."

Her king was so very serious, and a little dejected too, as if he thought she might change her mind once she weighed the issues. Narylfiel thought better of joking about having nothing to lose, since he already fired her from the guard. Instead, she reached for his hand, pulled it to her lips and kissed the tips of his fingers.

"As you said then," she consented, even though she hardly meant it. "I will do some serious thinking first."

Thranduil nodded, pleased that she agreed so easily. His little spark was known to be stubborn from time to time. "When we return to my halls, I will convene the elder council. I will let them know my intentions, that I plan to court you, that I plan to remarry."

Narylfiel groaned a little. "The Elder Council?" They were only the oldest, driest, stuffiest elves in Middle Earth.

Thranduil tilted his head as he regarded her, his dark blue eyes catching the firelight. "They are very wise, Narylfiel. They will not begrudge me this happiness," he said softly and added, "not that I need their permission."

"Rivenion once told me if I kept eating so much jam on my toast that I would be hard-pressed to find a 'willing bridegroom to raise me,'" Narylfiel said drily of one of the council members. "His words exactly."

Thranduil covered his smile with his hand a fraction too late.

Narylfiel punched him in the arm. "It's not funny at all!" she cried. "He does _not_ like me. Not even a little bit."

Rubbing his arm with mock-indignation, the Elvenking adopted a more serious expression. "Now, Narylfiel, I'm sure that he only told you that when you were very young."

She folded her arms. "That was last month."

"Well, you _do_ eat a worrisome amount of jam," he teased, "but I'll be sure to let him know that jam happens to be one of our shared passions."

She arched an eyebrow. "One of our shared passions? And what might the others be?" She leaned a little closer.

Thranduil smiled broadly, a rare thing in its brightness; it was almost dazzling. "I have a few ideas," he said, his voice softening as he drew a long shining strand of her hair between his fingers and pressed it to his lips. He gave her a wicked look. "But I can't have my dwarven critics thinking I'm corrupting you."

She blushed at the reminder but recovered enough to quip, "Ooh, if only they knew that I dream-kissed you first."

"I thought you said dream-kisses do not count," Thranduil reminded her as he wound the thick silk of her hair around his finger and tugged her closer, and then a little closer.

In their shared space, she suddenly forgot how to breathe, how to think at all.

"I noticed something," he whispered next to her mouth.

"What?" Her heart pounded so loudly she thought she said the word aloud, later she would not be sure.

"There's mistletoe growing in the branches of this tree," he said, his eyes leading hers up to the branch hanging above them.

Narylfiel only had enough time to remember how much she had wanted to kiss him under the mistletoe last Yule, because in the next moment, Thranduil pressed his lips to hers, warm and gentle. After a beat, he pulled away and tenderly grazed his thumb across her cheek as his eyes searched hers, for what she did not know. He opened his mouth as if to tell her something and then thought better of it and kissed her again, hesitantly, carefully moving his lips against her own. He was a king and conqueror, but there was nothing forceful about this—it was a slow burn, controlled, and a little part of her wondered what would happen when he lost control. Even so, fire thundered in her chest and then burned straight down through her hröa. Thranduil just kissed her. He was kissing her right now and holding her in his arms, and Narylfiel thought she might just fall apart into a thousand little pieces, but for the warmth of his embrace and the way his mouth felt on hers, his breath, his lips, his hands.

When he finally pulled away, Thranduil's eyes were dark with something undecipherable and ancient as he regarded her, smoothed her hair away from her face with a little bit of an unsteady hand.

"Kissing you," he said, finding his voice, "I still feel our bond, and I know I ended it, but it's there as plain as anything." He laced his fingers through hers and held onto her hand tightly.

"Perhaps you should kiss me a few more times to be sure," Narylfiel said, not even sure how she managed to speak at all.

"Perhaps I should," Thranduil agreed, and he did.

Then he settled his arm around her and held onto her until the fire burned low and the snow continued to fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... no interruptions this time! Happy Holidays! (and give the gift that keeps on giving—Please leave Kudos, Comment, and Bookmark!) ;)
> 
> Thranduil: #LuckyMistletoeSmooches
> 
> Narylfiel: #Finally


	15. Deadly

_First Age in Menegroth:_

_Thranduil sat cross-legged on the stool while his mother worked the tangles from his freshly washed hair. He scowled before he remembered his mother could see his reflection in the mirror._

_She laughed at him softly, pulling the comb gently through his shoulder length hair. "Oh, Thranduil!" she chided. "Do not pout. Your father and I both feel this decision is for the best."_

_He folded his arms across his chest and slumped a little before craning his neck to look back at his naneth. "But why, mother? All the other ellons my age are beginning their weapons training_ this _year!"_

_She wrapped her arms around him, smiled at their reflection together in the mirror. She was one of the Queen's attendants in court, but Thranduil secretly thought her lovelier than Melian herself._

_"Your father wants you to have another year to grow, that is all, Thranduil, and I would not have you leave my side just yet," she told him, pressing a kiss to his cheek._

_Thranduil sighed. He knew he was smaller than some of his friends, but that did not mean he could not whip any one of them in a fight._

_But he could not argue with his mother, and he certainly would not argue anything with his father, so Thranduil merely nodded his agreement and then wriggled his way out of his mother's arms. He hopped off the stool and picked up his small practice sword. Stopping at the doorway, he looked back at his naneth._

_"One of these days, mother! I will be the deadliest swordfighter in Middle Earth—just you wait and see!" he declared and gave his sword a dazzling swoop through the air._

* * *

November, 3018 (Third Age):

Narylfiel woke from the most delicious dream to Thranduil's voice in her ear, insistent. "Narylfiel, wake up. There's something out there."

She straightened, then blinked. There was no moon. The forest and woods were dark, and the fire had burned out long ago.

"Orcs?" she asked under her breath. Whatever it was did not sound loud enough to be orcs or wargs.

"Too quiet—men, perhaps—men up to no good," Thranduil said and slowly shifted, easing his arm out from behind her shoulders. Her eyes adjusted to the dark, and she watched as he noiselessly drew a long dagger from the inside of his boot.

Her eyes widened at the lethal curve to the blade in her king's hand. "What are we going to do?" she asked quietly, drawing her own knife.

" _I_ am going to go ascertain the intent of the person crossing these woods in the middle of the night," Thranduil told her. "You will stay here and be quiet."

"I don't think we should split up," she said, reaching for his arm.

His eyes gleamed dangerously as he stood up. "Then come with me, if you can keep up."

She grinned. "I know I can."

He pulled her to her feet and pressed a kiss to her hand before releasing it. "They're getting closer. Let's move."

With Thranduil leading the way, they quietly slipped into the dark copse of trees, just a small wood, really, on the shores of the Long Lake, nothing to compare to the Greenwood. Wood elves, of course, can move among the trees as easily as shadows and just as silently, and the Elvenking, among his many other abilities, was a hunter, and a deadly one at that. Soon he and Narylfiel had stolen up behind a pair of men, dark clothed, who, as Thranduil had suggested, did seem as though they were up to mischief.

One of the men whispered, "Did Maubûrz say he thought elves should be along this way?"

The other replied, "Yes, he watched them leave the Lonely Mountain. They could not have gone too far. He said he would pay us double!"

Thranduil had heard enough. He signaled to Narylfiel that he would make the first move, and then he quickly took down the closest man, seizing him from behind and knocking him unconscious with the hilt of his knife with such grace and speed that the man had little chance to defend himself. By the time the first man hit the ground, the Elvenking had already launched himself upon the other, who had only just turned in horror to hear the stifled groan from his companion hitting the forest floor. He fumbled for his blade, but Thranduil was too fast. In seconds, the elf's knife was at the man's throat. Narylfiel spun her blades in her hands and then, with a sigh, tucked her knives back into their sheath to join her king in his interrogation.

"You were looking for elves?" Thranduil asked the man silkily and tightened his grip on his prisoner. "You found them."

"Please—please don't kill me," he begged, his eyes widening as Narylfiel came to her king's side. "Nice lady, don't let him kill me."

"Do not speak to her," Thranduil hissed and gave his prisoner a jerk. "You were willing to collect a bounty on her only minutes ago. Who is paying you?"

"Drop your knife, elf," a harsh voice commanded from the darkness, "or I put an arrow through your pretty companion."

Thranduil slowly raised his hands, made a show of dropping the knife, hilt first to the ground.

"That's the thing about elves," the voice continued, getting louder as a dark figure stepped into the clearing, bow in hand, with an arrow trained on Narylfiel. "They think they're so ancient, so wise beyond mortal understanding." He dropped his hood and walked across to the elf. "But they're really just arrogant."

With a signal from the man, six other men, all armed, all ready to attack, moved into the clearing, and Thranduil's previous prisoner scooted away with a sniff and wiped at his eyes. Some of the men lit torches while the others made short work of divesting the elves of all their weapons and binding their prisoners' hands in front of them. They took more care with Narylfiel, but with Thranduil, they were none too gentle.

Thranduil cut his eyes to Narylfiel before he stared coldly at the man who had spoken. He was tall, broad-shouldered with dark braided hair and sallow skin. "You have our attention," the Elvenking said aloofly, "Who are you? What do you want?"

The man's eyes gleamed as he regarded the elves before him, lingering much longer on Narylfiel than Thranduil. "You may call me Maubûrz, and I think I have exactly what I want right here."

He reached out his arm and felt the fabric of Narylfiel's sleeve. She did not flinch but stared at him stonily. "This is a guard's uniform. It is interesting to me that elves would let their women serve in their army. In my lands, women have better uses," he said, leaving his hand on her arm.

A muscle ticked in Thranduil's jaw.

"I am here for information, mainly about Erebor and Dale, but when I saw the pair of you leave the mountain, I could not pass up the opportunity. I know someone who will pay dearly for what you know. You will tell me the layout and positions of the elves' defenses in Mirkwood."

Neither elf said anything. Narylfiel's eyes worriedly met her king's, and Thranduil's hands tightened under his bonds.

"I thought not," the man concluded, "but I'm confident the person I'm taking you to will have ways of making you talk." He eyed Narylfiel again and leaned toward her, his fingers trailing down her arm. "Such a pity."

He turned away imperiously and signaled his men. "Tie them up to one of the trees for the rest of the night."

So it was that the King of the Woodland Realm found himself roped tightly to the trunk of a tree. A few feet away, Narylfiel stared at him piteously, straining against her ropes in hope that she might loosen hers.

"Do not hurt yourself," Thranduil said tiredly. "They're too tight. I've already tried."

Narylfiel tried to smile a little. "This is exciting, right? We're sort of in our own little adventure, just like all those Legolas and Thaliniel have had. We'll escape somehow."

Thranduil tried to match her hopeful expression. "Galadhor will never let me out of the halls again when he finds out about this," he said, trying to sound optimistic when in truth he felt anything but hopeful. When he thought about who might be willing to pay for information about his defenses in Mirkwood, he could only imagine that it must be someone out of Dol Guldur, one of Sauron's minions, or worse one of the Nine, Sauron's most trusted henchmen—his Ringwraiths.

"Maybe it can be our little secret," Narylfiel continued.

"Maybe…" Thranduil answered shortly and looked away. Perhaps when the men came to untie him, he could overpower them, take their weapons. "Try to rest," he advised Narylfiel. "If we plan on escaping, we will both need our strength."

Thranduil dosed uneasily. It was the harsh sound of the men arguing that woke him first, but when he heard Narylfiel cry out, his eyes refocused, looked around anxiously. Maubûrz's men busily worked at the ropes pinning her to the tree—one man held her down while the other untied the knot. They planned on taking her away, and never had Thranduil felt so helpless. He thrashed against his ropes, wanting to go to her, get to her. Every time he heard her cry out, the feeling of dread in the Elvenking's stomach coiled and doubled. If any of those men touched her…hurt her…he would kill them all.

"No, please don't," she sobbed. "Please just leave me." She pushed against the man holding her down, but he easily brushed her off.

"This isn't right," the other man untying the ropes protested, shaking his head. "Maubûrz ought to leave her alone. She's just an innocent girl."

"Sure, Alef—just go tell Maubûrz that you don't approve of his womanizing," the man holding Narylfiel laughed sarcastically.

"No, no, no." Tears rolled down Narylfiel's cheeks as the man holding her loosened the ropes from around her waist, his filthy hands pulling at her, touching her, and Thranduil redoubled his efforts to break free from his bonds.

"Fight them, Narylfiel!" he urged her in elvish, his heart pounding furiously at the sight of her tear-streaked face. "Try to break free and escape."

Then Narylfiel did a curious thing—she had waited for just the right moment when the man holding her down turned to curse at the other man named Alef for going too slow—and she lifted her head to look across at Thranduil, grinned a little, and winked.

No one saw the small gesture, save Thranduil. "Be careful," he mouthed and continued to work on freeing his right arm.

When the ropes were loose enough, the man who had been holding Narylfiel down, dragged her up, one hand tightly wrapped around her wrist. "Come on. The master wants you," he said, tugging her toward the largest tent, but he had not counted on the strength of elves. And Narylfiel had greatly downplayed her own abilities when she pretended to fight against him earlier. Thranduil now looked on curiously, knowing that despite her sweet appearance, his little naurenniel was probably stronger than half the men in that camp. So when the man tugged on Narylfiel's wrist again to lead her to the master's tent, this time she dug her heels in and pulled back. She snapped her other hand around the man's grip on her own arm and pulled back with all of her might, with arms that had been toned pulling bows for the past three hundred years, and she used her momentum to launch the man flying into the tree where she had just been tied up. His head hit the trunk with a large crack, and he sank limply to the ground.

"Tell the master I'm unavailable," she hissed and kicked the knife that the man had dropped in their scuffle across the dirt to within reach of Thranduil's tied-up fingers.

Then just like that, she bounded into the forest and was gone.

It all happened so quickly that the rest of the men were still staring after her when Maubûrz emerged, bare-chested and oiled, from the tent at the sound of the scuffle and the men's shouting.

"Bring her back!" he ordered his men, and murder glinted in his eyes as his gaze fell upon Thranduil. He strode across camp toward the elvenking, and Thranduil barely had enough time to inch the knife under his hand to hide it.

"You think this is funny, elf?" Maubûrz asked, looking down at him. The smell of scented oils wafting off the man was almost over-powering.

"I would hate to reinforce the _arrogant elf_ reputation by saying this, but that little she-elf just over-powered your men and escaped," Thranduil pointed out, smirking.

"The men will get her back," Maubûrz said, his eyes searching the dark woods.

Thranduil laughed. "How foolish of you to think so! No, you had better just put your clothes back on right now. You'll never see her again."

The man's eyes darkened at the insult. "I still have you," he said, eyes trailing over the elf.

Thranduil laughed again. "You _are_ an idiot. I really do try to see the best in other races, but again I find myself sorely tested."

Maubûrz reared back and kicked the elf in the chest as hard as he could.

"Coward," the elf said coolly, looking up through his long lashes. He had spoken loud enough for the remaining two men in the camp to overhear.

Maubûrz would not be taunted, not by his own prisoner—this pompous elf! He crouched before him and unsheathed a cruel-looking knife from his belt. "You are less than nothing, elf. And I could carve up your pretty face right now if I wanted to. I could take _you_ into my tent in place of her," he growled.

Thranduil, using all the power his voice commanded, fixed him with a cold look. "We both know that I am more than you could handle, Maubûrz—you, the lesser son of a dying nation, whom your emperor sent away from your homeland like a dog sent out to the fields." Thranduil leaned in closer. "It's because he hopes that you will not return."

Maubûrz stood with a huff, his dark eyes murderous. Thranduil's words had struck a nerve apparently. "You will pay for your impudence," he seethed.

"I doubt it. I rarely do," Thranduil said and attempted to shrug.

"Untie him," Maubûrz barked at his men. "Untie him at once and bring me my sword!"

When their backs were turned, Thranduil smiled a little to himself. He palmed the knife that Narylfiel had kicked to him and waited for the men to loosen the ropes.

" _You_ are the fool, elf," Maubûrz spat, grasping his sword and spinning it elaborately. "I have trained in the House of Embers for twenty winters. I am Maubûrz, son of Kûrzhai, prince of the Fourth Kingdom, the Herald of Grief."

Thranduil rose slowly, his eyes fixed on the tall man before him, and made a show of dusting off his clothing, slipping the knife into the back of his pants as he did so. "Impressive, Maubûrz of the Fourth Kingdom," he said, taking up the blade that one of the men just offered him. It wasn't his own, and Thranduil thought it pretty shabbily balanced, but it would do. "Shall I reciprocate? I trained among the high elves of Doriath in the First Age in the House of Elu Thingol. I am Thranduil, son of Oropher, Elvenking of the Woodland Realm." He spun his borrowed blade lazily in his palm and raised a single eyebrow.

Maubûrz gasped a little that this elf before him might just be the Elvenking. Even in the east, scholars told legends of the most powerful elf lords ruling the west, and Thranduil's name was among them. Truly, if Maubûrz could defeat him in combat, he would be counted among the greatest of his people's warriors.

The two remaining men in the camp backed away, giving the elf and their leader a wide berth. Maubûrz made the first move, swiping his sword through the air in a violent slash as he moved toward the Elvenking.

Thranduil did nothing, merely waited and watched the man's posturing. When he had finally had enough, seen enough, he caught Maubûrz's blade mid arc and forced it down. The man's skill and strength were honestly more than Thranduil expected.

Then the true fight began. Maubûrz swung his curved eastern blade toward Thranduil's abdomen with tremendous force and strength, and the elf parried the blow and then dodged the next. Maubûrz's eastern style depended on strength and speed, both of which the man seemed to have in abundance. He rained blow after blow toward the Elvenking who seemed to have an uncanny ability to dodge each one or quick enough reflexes to parry the man's attack.

Panting, Maubûrz exclaimed frustratedly, "Who is the coward now, King Elf? Afraid to take the offensive?"

The elf king's eyes glowed predatorily. "No, but I've been learning all your tells. Did you know that you list to the right on your forward thrusts? You're inadvertently making your left side vulnerable."

Maubûrz did not appreciate the criticism. He charged toward the elf with a loud shout, but this time, Thranduil attacked, moving with a sense of speed and grace that the man had never before witnessed in battle or in all of his winters training in the House of Embers. The Elvenking twisted away from the sweep of Maubûrz's blade and then brought his blade up hard toward the man's left side.

Maubûrz's eyes widened as he backed away and then probed above his ribs. His fingertips came away red. Thranduil had drawn first blood, and he only allowed the man a brief respite before starting again, taking the offensive, forcing Maubûrz to wind backwards across the camp in an attempt to defend himself against the Elvenking's lethal assault. To Maubûrz's credit, the man lasted much longer than Thranduil thought he would, but already his defenses had slowed, weakened. The elf king pointed this out to Maubûrz, but before the man could form an answer, Thranduil had knocked the sword from his hand. The elf kicked the blade away and then pointed his borrowed blade at the man's chest.

"I am leaving now," the elf said, eyeing the other men in the camp. "You would be wise to let me go."

Maubûrz wiped the sweat from his brow, leaving a crimson streak from his blood-stained fingers. "You are _not_ leaving, elf. Not until I have my satisfaction."

Thranduil gave him a dismissive look and picked his way across the camp, careful not to turn his back to any of the men, and especially not to Maubûrz. He stopped by the fire and pointed to a bag of elven weapons the men had taken from him and Narylfiel. "I'll be taking that."

The man meekly handed it up to the elf, and Maubûrz howled, "Don't give him the weapons! Stop him!" but the other man only shook his head 'no' and backed away from Thranduil.

Thranduil looked in the sack and with great satisfaction, pulled his own blade from the weapons there. He slung the bag over his shoulder and pointed his sword, shining and deadly, at Maubûrz. "Leave these lands, Maubûrz. I will be sending my own company of warriors here to make sure you have vacated this place. Do not return."

With that said, Thranduil edged his way into the woods, keeping his eye on all the men in the camp until he felt that he was far enough into the trees for shelter from stray arrows. Now all he had to do was find Narylfiel; he rather hoped she was halfway to the Woodland Realm by now, but he figured she was probably nearby.

A little farther into the woods, Thranduil came upon his first guard, knocked unconscious, lying face down in the leaves and dirt. All of his weapons had been stolen. "Good girl, Narylfiel," remarked Thranduil to himself. He was not worried for a second about her ability to stay hidden—after all she had learned tracking and woodcraft from his own son.

The Elvenking had only taken a few more steps when he heard a light rustle over his head. He turned, and relief flooded his heart to see Narylfiel dropping down from a branch overhead.

"Thranduil!" she exclaimed, flying into his arms, wrapping her own around his waist tightly. "You escaped!"

He hugged her to him tightly, finally able to relax now that she was safe in his arms. Seconds later, his mouth found hers, and he kissed her hungrily, pushing her against the trunk of the nearest tree, his hands eager to make sure she was safe, that she was well, and all of his fears for her burned away. He lifted her up and into him, his mouth hot against her lips, her skin, and if Narylfiel had wondered what it might be like if Thranduil lost control, his reaction now could be an indicator.

"I need to get you home," her Elvenking told her breathlessly after kissing her nearly senseless.

Narylfiel nodded. "I could say the same to _you_ ," she said, biting her lip, willing her silly heart to stop its mad pounding.

"First—are you hurt? Injured in any way?" He checked her face, frowning at the slight abrasion on her cheek and then carefully checked each of her arms and hands. Once satisfied, he started to lift the hem of her tunic before she stopped him.

"Thranduil!" she protested. "I am not injured there!"

He arched a doubtful eyebrow. "That is what you told me last time."

"I'm not," she told him swatting his hand away and leaning over to pick up her bow, peaking out from Thranduil's bag.

'Wait—" he said softly and catching her hand, brought her fingers to his lips. "You did well back there, Narylfiel. I am proud of how you handled yourself." He shook his head at the whole mishap and kissed her fingers again. "Very sneaky."

She freed her hand and wrapped her arms back around his neck, taking a moment to enjoy the feel of his hair beneath her fingertips. Then with a little tug and a turn, Narylfiel pushed him so Thranduil backed into the tree trunk.

"Oh?" he asked, a little surprised and pleased at her daring as she leaned in to him.

"I may have come back to the camp to try and 'rescue' you, Thranduil, not that you needed it. I saw your fight with Maubûrz from the trees," she told him, her brown eyes shining. "I am proud of you too." Then she tentatively lowered her mouth to his, kissing him exactly how she thought he needed to be kissed—her beautiful, deadly warrior.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, the peril! And I didn't leave it on a cliff-hanger! Aren't you proud of me? Please Comment, Leave Kudos, and Bookmark!
> 
> Thranduil: #MaubûrzHazNoGame #ElvenkingSwagger
> 
> Maubûrz: #IDemandaRematch
> 
> Narylfiel: #GrossBodyOil #Ew


	16. Guarded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil reluctantly returns to Dale...

2946, Third Age

_"Father," Legolas said one night after they had all sat down to dinner. The kitchen had prepared roast venison with gravy and new potatoes again; it was one of King Thranduil's favorites. He was always in a better mood when the staff served it, paired with his current favorite vintage of red. As a result, Narylfiel had secretly deemed it the 'ask for something' meal._

_Thranduil looked up from his plate after fastidiously dabbing at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. "Yes, son?"_

_"I would like to take Thaliniel and her sister to visit Dale for a week or so," Legolas said evenly, sharing a glance with his wife._

_Both Thaliniel and Narylfiel's eager smiles did not go unnoticed by the king who stabbed a little potato with his fork._

_"Dale?" he said, cutting a delicate slice off his venison to accompany the piece of potato on his fork. "Whatever for?"_

_"They are having a spring festival again, like they used to in the days before the dragon," Legolas countered. "It would be a good opportunity to build on our diplomatic relations with their new king."_

_Thranduil pursed his lips and thought for a moment. "Their new king—who, the dragon slayer? Bard? He's well enough as men go, I suppose."_

_"I know you commissioned builders to rebuild your former town home there, Father," Legolas said carefully. "We could stay there and see the town, visit the festival."_

_It was true, Thranduil thought. He had paid masons and laborers to rebuild his own town home, the very one he had bought so long ago when he chased after his errant son and Thaliniel before they had married. It did not have anything to do with him feeling nostalgic—not in the slightest! He was simply trying to help provide jobs and income to the needy, recovering populace of Laketown. Thranduil pensively chewed his venison and washed it down with a sip of wine before studying the eager faces of the three young elves before him._

_"You may go," he said and paused long enough for the excited chatter to die down, "as a show of our continued goodwill."_

_"Oh, King Thranduil," Narylfiel exclaimed, "would you please come with us?"_

_Legolas started coughing, something that sounded remarkably like 'Valar, no!' and Thaliniel all of a sudden seemed preoccupied with tearing the roll on her plate into tiny shreds._

_The king's eyes met Narylfiel's bright gaze. "No, I would not go back to Dale, if I could help it. Men, wizards, dwarves…the city seems a portent to change, and the soil there is still too red with the blood of our fallen. No, I would not return there for any price."_

_Legolas' coughing fit subsided, and he looked upon his father with a mixture of relief and remorse. "We will miss you, of course, Father."_

_Thranduil smiled wryly. "Give my regards to Bard, and try not to get into any more trouble," he said and then went to work finishing his dinner, one of his favorites. No one could make gravy like his head cook. From the corner of his eye, he watched Narylfiel quietly finish her meal. She seemed disappointed._

_Thranduil left his family at the table minutes later, having grown weary of listening to the ladies and Legolas' discussion about Dale and the Spring Festival. He meant what he had said about never wanting to return to that place; its charm had died alongside his Elven warriors in the Battle of Five Armies._

_He was only halfway down the hall when Narylfiel caught up to him. "I think you should come with us," she said._

_"No." He stopped, looked at her, his eyes mildly amused. "You still have your napkin in your hand from dinner."_

_She glanced down at the wadded up cloth. "I left in a hurry to try and catch you!" Narylfiel folded it into a tidy square. "Why won't you come to Dale? Leave the palace…it can run without you, you know."_

_Thranduil shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Legolas would prefer I stay here."_

_"That is hardly a reason," Narylfiel contradicted, her cheeks heating up, knowing that her king rarely considered anyone else's wishes in his decision making. "Please?" She looked up at him through her long, tangled lashes._

_He hesitated, and she smiled, adding temptingly, "I heard from one of our raft-elves that the open market has really grown in the past five years. Erebor's patronage has reached out to all sorts of vendors—the cloth maker's guild especially."_

_Thranduil arched an elegant eyebrow. "Cloth makers, you say? As if dwarves would know the slightest about anything fashion related."_

_"Might be worth checking into," Narylfiel prodded._

_"It might be," Thranduil conceded, "but I have no desire to return to Dale." He then signaled the end of the conversation by resuming his walk down the hall._

_Narylfiel did not return to the dining room. She had lost her appetite._

* * *

November, 3018

The woods were soft and grey in the shaded morning light under the trees when Thranduil and Narylfiel discovered that their sure-footed ride had probably returned to Dale and was already happily munching oats in the stable where the Elvenking had bought him. So it was that both elves found themselves strolling through the forest, and even though Thranduil had grumbled a lot about the unreliable nature of man-raised horses, Narylfiel felt fairly certain that her king enjoyed their hike through the woods. He took time to point out how the lichens growing on a certain tree resembled King Dain or the symmetry in three tall firs growing together on the hillside, or how bright the ice shone along the surface of the River Running through the trees. And for just a little while, Thranduil remembered how much he loved the song of the wind through the trees and he was just as a elf should be—in the wild woods, listening to the quiet refrain and sway of the pines and the harmony of good, growing things.

Last night's events had convinced the Elvenking to return to Dale. After running into Maubûrz and his band of cutthroats, Thranduil felt that he should warn the city of the impending attack from the east. In truth, the king did not relish the idea of returning to Dale again and quietly said as much to Narylfiel.

Despite the king's reserve, Narylfiel was ecstatic. She adored visiting Dale and had made the trip many times with Legolas and Thaliniel. "I'm glad we're going back, especially now that I feel better to enjoy it. The people, the markets, the sound of children's laughter! I love it."

"The noise, the smell, the impertinent staring… I detest it." Thranduil crinkled his nose for her benefit and waited to see her reaction out of the corner of his eye. "But once I enjoyed their fresh market and the wine, of course. Legolas tells me the king and his family are tolerable folk."

"Tolerable folk? Really, Thranduil!" Narylfiel let out an exasperated sigh. "They are good people and have always been welcoming and warm whenever I have visited."

Thranduil arched his eyebrow as he took her hand to guide her around a slick fall of rocks where run-off from the hillside had frozen. "Warm and welcoming!" he retorted. "I suppose that is because King Brand has fancied you since he was a gawky adolescent."

Narylfiel's eyes widened, and she stopped mid-step. "No…" she drew the word out and gave him an incredulous look. "I watched him grow up! No," she repeated herself and shook her head.

Thranduil looked faintly amused as he reached for her hand and drew her closer, until there was only a hand's breadth between them. "I watched you grow up," he told her, his eyes soft, and his breath warmed her cheek.

"That's different," she countered stubbornly.

"Perhaps," the king agreed, "but you, of all people, must agree that age does not always matter to the heart." He leaned down and kissed her lightly on the lips, and smiled at her.

"Just wait until we get to Dale," Narylfiel pressed. "Then you will see that it is hardly a thing."

Thranduil smirked a little. "You know, Legolas told me of this. He said Brand was bad, but his son Bard was even worse. 'Besotted' is the word he used—and for Legolas to notice!—well, it must be pretty obvious."

"Hmph," Narylfiel crossed her arms and picked up her pace, mumbling something that Thranduil thought sounded a lot like 'nosy gossips' but he couldn't be sure.

A little past noon when the sun was still high in sky, Thranduil and Narylfiel heard the soft patter of many hooves and before long, the Royal Guard appeared, swiftly riding through the trees—their armor and helms catching the light from the sun overhead.

Reluctantly, Thranduil let go of Narylfiel's hand. "Not just yet," he told her softly, and she watched with a mixture of admiration and regret as he transformed from the elf who had only minutes ago been trying to beat her in making up the silliest song about their adventure to being the Elvenking, all grace, all authority. He called to his guard in his 'King Thranduil' voice as Narylfiel liked to think of it, and the guards responded with shouts of their own—hailing their king and voicing their great relief to finding him and Narylfiel unharmed.

The guards collectively formed ranks as they neared; they offered a mixture of Thranduil's personal Royal Guard and members of the Forest Guard, all of whom Beriadan, their captain had hand-picked as the fastest riders, the most deadly at arms. At the front, Elfir, who had long stood as the head of Thranduil's royal detail, saluted his king and then greeted him merrily. "King Thranduil, you find us much relieved to find you and Lady Narylfiel well."

Thranduil clasped his arm and thanked him along with all of the guard. Then he met shortly with Elfir, briefly explaining to him much of the most recent events. He then ordered half of his guards to continue toward Erebor in search of Maubúrz and his ring of spies, with orders to capture them and bring them to King Brand's hall in the city of Dale. Thranduil and the rest of his guard, including Narylfiel, would meet them there, for he had learned of a threat toward Dale that he could not in good faith ignore. Even if Thranduil deserved a reputation as an isolationist in his policies, he did generally care for the people of Dale and valued protecting his trade above all. He would much rather not risk a disruption in the trading routes that fed his halls with supplies via the Celduin.

If any of the guards looked disapprovingly upon Narylfiel as joined their group, she pretended not to notice. She certainly pretended not to notice Elfir's disdainful glance when he brushed past her to speak with the king. Meanwhile, two of Narylfiel's friend from the Forest Guard, Melui and Alassien, caught her into a fierce hug.

"We were so worried for you, Narylfiel! After we saw all the dead orcs close to the border, we did not know what to think!" Melui told her, her eyes bright. Melui had been Narylfiel's first true friend in the Forest Guard, and if many of the elves were put off by Narylfiel's close connection to the royal family, Melui was not. On Narylfiel's first day of serving in the guard, she had taken Narylfiel under her wing and had been her friend ever since.

"Then we found your horse and the king's elk, we _really_ did not know what to think!" Alassien chimed in, hooking his long arm around Narylfiel's shoulders and ruffling her hair. Narylfiel immediately angled to return the favor, reaching for his dark braided hair until he playfully dodged her.

"When Elfir sent me into Dale to check the King's townhome," Melui continued, rolling her eyes at their exchange, "the couple there told us you had been hurt and the king was taking you to Erebor for some medicine."

Alassien released Narylfiel and looked her over, concern showing in his warm grey eyes. "How are you, Narylfiel? Are you still injured?"

Narylfiel smoothed down her hair and hesitated. "I am…I have been better," she said wryly. "But King Thranduil has been very gracious and very kind."

Alassien and Melui shared a disbelieving glance. "You have to know," Alassien told her quietly, "that the king was beyond upset when he discovered you were missing. I have seen him angry before, but all of those times fell short of his fury when I saw him leaving."

Narylfiel nodded and glanced over at her king, still discussing matters with Elfir. "He _was_ angry," she admitted. "He relieved me of my position in the Guard."

Melui gasped and then pulled her young friend back into her arms. "We were afraid that might happen," she said, her voice catching. "But maybe after a furlough, he would let you join again."

Narylfiel shook her head. "No, I do not think so. He was pretty clear about my role changing." She could not say any more, but both her friends gave her sympathetic looks, and Alassien ruffled her hair again and whispered that she could always look into playing the harp or something—a long-running joke between them. He knew her sister had always wanted Narylfiel to take up music, but she had always preferred hunting and weapons training.

The Royal Guard signaled they were ready to leave, and King Thranduil, riding his elk, which the guards had brought along with Narylfiel's horse, took his customary place toward the front. Narylfiel hung toward the back, choosing to ride by Melui, since Alassien had been chosen to go with the small group of guards intent on searching for Maubûrz and his group of ruffians and spies.

Part of Narylfiel longed to speed up and join Thranduil, but she also felt the unsaid censure of most of the guards. She had disobeyed. Her actions had put the king in danger. Instead, she rode in the back and tried not to draw attention to herself, and as she half-listened to Melui talk about the upcoming Yule feast, Narylfiel found her eyes drawn to Thranduil riding ahead of her, tall and proud, quietly talking with Elfir. At one point, he turned around, his blue eyes searching until they met hers. Narylfiel gave him a small smile. Thranduil did not return the gesture, and a little part of her shriveled inside. She hoped her disappointment did not show all over her face and quickly turned again to face Melui, feigning interest in what she was saying. Narylfiel chided herself for being silly to feel rejected for something so trivial. But still… This relationship was going to be much more difficult than she anticipated. All she really wanted was to be by his side, but now was not the place, nor the time. She would simply have to do her best to maintain appearances—and keep her distance.

With sea-green standards flapping in the northern wind, the city gates of Dale were wide open when the wood elves finally arrived. After the Battle of the Five Armies, the dwarves of Erebor had done much to help the refugees from Laketown rebuild the stonework and walls of Dale back into its former glory. The city was bright and full of cheer as curious men, women, and children looked on from their homes and shops to see the elven guard in their gleaming armor ride past them, and whispers began to spread, fingers began to point. The Elvenking had returned to Dale.

The elves did not stop until the city's captains met them on the steps of the citadel in the center of the city where good King Brand kept court and ruled fairly. Among them was a face Thranduil remembered well, and said so as he dismounted and greeted the young man.

"Prince Bard, well met. Your great-grandsire's blood still runs strong, I see. You are just like him."

"King Thranduil," the young man said with a bow, his eyes wide with admiration, "we are honored by your visit. Please, my father will want to see you, of course."

Thranduil nodded graciously. He and the other elves swept into an elegant column behind the captains. Narylfiel followed along, until she passed by Bard. He let out an oath when he saw her.

"Lady Narylfiel! Durin's beard!" he exclaimed and took her by the hand. "I have not seen you for ages!"

"It has been too long," she agreed, warmly her eyes lighting up. The other elves continued gracefully up the steps, sleek and silvery in the later sunlight. She would just be a minute. She was sure she could catch up to them. "Three years, I think?" she guessed.

Bard laughed. "Try five, Lady Narylfiel!" He shook his head but grinned. "Ah, to be an elf, I suppose."

Narylfiel returned his smile easily. "How is your family, Bard? Where is Eydis?"

As soon as the name left her lips, Narylfiel knew she had said the wrong thing. Bard's cheerful expression vanished and grief filled his eyes, slumped his shoulders.

"Oh, no…I'm sorry, Bard. I did not know," Narylfiel said sorrowfully, remembering how on her last visit, Bard and Eydis had only recently married. Eydis, with her bright eyes and laughter, teasing Bard for a moonlit race around the city walls, Eydis was somehow gone; it did not seem possible.

"No, 'tis nothing you could have known of," the young man said with a determined glint in his eyes. "It happened in the cold spell at the beginning of last spring—the wasting fever, it spread through the city so fast, and she had been stubborn about helping to bring meals to some of the sick. By the time we realized…there was nothing we could do."

Narylfiel impulsively pulled him into her arms, recalling when he was just a little boy and how upset he was when Legolas announced that they were leaving to return to the forest. She had hugged him then, all dark curls and big brown eyes, and had promised to bring him a treat on her next visit. No amount of treats could fix this now.

"Bard, I'm so sorry! If we had known, we could have come and helped," she said quietly, her eyes burning.

"You did know," Bard told her, pulling back from her embrace and dragging his hand through his messy brown curls. "At least your king knew. We sent a message asking for aid, and he sent some healers and supplies."

"I didn't know," Narylfiel said slowly. "I would have come had I known." Her eyes drifted up to the Main Hall where Thranduil and his guard had disappeared. He had never mentioned it. Had Legolas or Thaliniel known?

She stayed and talked with him, hoping to lighten his mood, until Elfir reappeared at the top of the steps, a none too pleased expression on his face and his arms folded across his chest.

He clearly waited for her, and when it became evident that she was in no hurry to run up the steps to see what he wanted, Elfir descended to the courtyard facing the street, where Narylfiel and Bard still conversed under the bare branches of a small tree.

He did not have to announce his presence to them; Elfir was as nearly tall as the king, and fairly intimidating in his Royal Guard armor. Bard's voice trailed away mid-sentence, and both the man and elleth turned to look up at the guard.

"I suppose it is too much to ask that you stay with the rest of the group, Narylfiel?" Elfir asked archly.

"I am sorry, Elfir," Narylfiel started.

"Do not be too cross with her," Bard joined in. "It was my fault."

Elfir slowly turned and eyed Bard. "I need to speak with her privately," he said and looked at the young man expectantly.

Bard shot Narylfiel an apologetic look and then climbed up the steps on his own, turning back to look at her once before he entered the Great Hall.

Elfir turned and eyed the prince's retreat before wordlessly turning back to the young elleth. "Even so, Narylfiel—it does not reflect well on our king to have one of his group wandering aimlessly."

"Of course, Elfir. You are right," she heard herself say automatically—he had been one of Thranduil's personal guards for ever since she started living with the royal family.

Elfir gestured to the other elven guards, now wordlessly exiting through the grand double doors of the Main Hall. "King Brand invited King Thranduil to be the guest of the royal family tonight, but the rest of the guard is leaving to stay at the king's town house, save myself and Dorwil," Elfir told her. "The king requested that you also stay as his guest." He did not say which king—was it Thranduil or Brand? Even though it hardly mattered, she hoped that Thranduil wished for her to stay with him.

Narylfiel permitted herself a small smile, to which Elfir gave her a stern look.

"You should not have allowed Prince Bard to be so familiar with you. You are a member of the King's household, sister to the Princess—and as such, your behavior should be above reproach," Elfir said sternly. "You are not a child anymore, Narylfiel!"

Narylfiel felt her cheeks heat up. She had only stopped to talk to Bard! Rather than argue, she simply nodded. "Yes, Elfir," she said quietly, chagrined. She was not sure she could be aloof or dignified enough to please Elfir, or Thranduil for that matter—and certainly not guarded enough in her behavior to win over the Elder Council! She could already imagine the sorts of things they might say about her. But honestly—when she was happy, she wanted to act happy, and when she was upset, she was going to act upset! Narylfiel had never been one to hide her feelings. Obviously right now her dismay must have shown all over her face, because Elfir's face softened.

"Best behavior," he reminded her, only more gently this time. "No more getting into danger, Narylfiel." He met her eyes, looked at her intently. "You are too dear to the king to risk."

Oh, too dear to the king! Narylfiel felt her heart clutch a little at Elfir's words. She smiled brightly at him, once again unable to conceal her happiness at his admission.

Elfir's mouth tightened back into a straight line as he stood with her, watching as their friends in the guard marched down the steps and reassembled in front of him. King Thranduil was not among them. Dorwil, one of the other Royal Guards, came to stand on the other side of Narylfiel, and Elfir quickly gave the remaining guards orders to leave their mounts with the stable hands at the citadel and journey on foot to the Elven King's townhome, where they could await further instructions.

After the other elves departed, Narylfiel found herself joining King Thranduil in the Main Hall, a large stone room with tall ceilings, intricately carved pillars and bright tapestries adorning the rear wall behind King Brand's simple throne. Brand sat there, his silver hair unadorned, with Prince Bard standing to his left.

Despite Elfir's well meant directive concerning propriety, Narylfiel could not hold back her joy at seeing King Brand again and smiled broadly as he stood to greet her, clasping her hand in his.

"Lady Narylfiel," he said warmly, "Prince Bard was just telling me you were here. I would be honored if you could accompany King Thranduil to dinner with the royal family tonight."

Her eyes darted to Thranduil, and he gave a single, small nod of agreement.

King Brand clapped his hands together, and two young men sporting the royal livery appeared. "But of course, you both must wish to refresh yourselves after such an ordeal as King Thranduil tells me you have had. Spies—and so close to our town and Erebor. It can only mean ill things to come, I fear," King Brand said with a shake of his head.

"I sent my best trackers in their direction. They will not get far," Thranduil said, his eyes glittering, "and then we will have some answers."

Brand traded a grim look with the Elven King. "These lads will show you to your quarters."

Narylfiel paced in her room. She had gladly traded her muddied traveling clothes for the lovely dark blue gown. It was a little short through the waist; but it was infinitely better than her alternative. She wondered if Thranduil had changed clothes. She somehow doubted it, not being able to see him borrowing something. He was much too tall! Not to mention, Thranduil was not really the borrowing type.

Narylfiel chuckled to herself, trying to imagine her immaculate king showing up to dinner in too-short pants. Her eyes drifted to the wall between them; his room was right on the other side of hers. Elfir and Dorwil had parked themselves firmly in front of his door, and she knew this because only seconds ago, she had poked her head out the door. They had both silently stared at her until Elfir inquired if she needed anything.

Like she could tell Elfir what she _really_ needed. Not after he already gave her a talking to for her uncouth behavior.

She sighed and twisted the ring on her finger, wishing she could go to her king. They had not been apart since Thranduil had healed her, had opened up that wonderful and horrible bond between them and then tore it away. Narylfiel absently rubbed her chest and then eyed the window. She crossed over to it and peered down. Oh, it was no easy distance to the stone courtyard below. She lifted the latch, pushed the two frames holding the glass open, and leaned out. The king's room came with a balcony. Narylfiel smiled to herself. This was going to be easier than she originally thought.

Without any further consideration, she hoisted herself up into the window and balanced herself on the stone ledge just outside her window. Pressing herself against the outer wall, Narylfiel edged herself closer to the king's balcony and then when she thought she was close enough, made an easy leap across the railing and onto the little deck.

Narylfiel had not planned on the thin coating of ice across the stonework. Her feet flew out from under her, and she landed in an undignified heap of dark blue fabric. She popped up quickly but not before catching a glimpse of Thranduil's disapproving expression from the doorway.

"Surprise?" she quipped and gave a little curtsy.

Thranduil pushed his way out onto the balcony, his head snapping toward her window and then scanning the lower courtyard, before he turned around and faced her.

Clearly he was less than pleased on the manner of her arrival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So just a refresher on characters from Tolkien’s appendices in LOTR:  
> Lord Girion of Dale- Bard’s father  
> Bard the Bowman- killed Smaug in The Hobbit, becomes king of newly restored Dale  
> Bain - son of Bard, 2nd king of Dale  
> Brand - son of Bain, 3rd king of Dale  
> Bard II - son of King Brand (appears in this story)
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please leave Kudos, Comment, and Bookmark! 
> 
> Thranduil: #NotAmused #OneAndOnlyElvenking


	17. Difficult

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our main characters have a disagreement...

* * *

Chapter 16: Difficult

_November 2941, Third Age:_

_Narylfiel looked up from her mending—another hole in the knee of her leggings!—to see her sister enter the sitting room, her face streaked with tears._

_She was up at once, putting her arm around Thaliniel, and guiding her to sit down._

_"What? What has happened?"_

_But her sister could hardly form a single word without the tears threatening to overflow._

_"Thranduil..." Her sister's voice trembled._

_"Thranduil..." Narylfiel prompted._

_"He's moving the army out at dawn. The dragon is dead, and he wants to lay claim to the treasure in the mountain," the older sister sniffed, taking the proffered scrap of fabric from her sister to wipe her eyes._

_"Why the tears then?" Narylfiel asked, wondering why she had not heard of this herself. After all, she was part of the Forest Guard, and not to mention, friends with the king! He had not mentioned a word of this plan to her when she saw him last evening after dinner! She narrowed her eyes but then made herself pay attention. Thaliniel had stopped sniffling and tried to explain._

" _Beriadan's called up all the infantry, all the archers-and Legolas will go with them. The king wouldn't go to the trouble unless...he thought there was a chance his claim would be contested…unless he thought there might be a fight."_

_Suddenly Narylfiel understood and it was at this moment that Legolas rushed in. "Oh, good you found your sister," he said, relieved. He had already changed into his armor, and he looked a far cry from the awkward prince who had shown up at her father's vineyard so many years ago. His years of service in the Forest Guard had hardened him into a warrior who had seen and delivered much of death and battle. His face was resolute, and his eyes were grave. "I'm leaving tonight with the forward group to scout," he told Narylfiel. "You're to stay here with the home guard."_

_Then the prince led his wife into the corner to tell her a few last words. Narylfiel suddenly pretended to be very interested in her mending again to give them some privacy. Out of the corner of her eye she watched as the prince pulled her sister in for a long, passionate kiss; she averted her eyes again. She wished, she wished she had someone feel for her a fraction of how much she knew Legolas loved her sister._

_Thranduil. Her stomach twisted as she realized. He would be leaving too._

_She did not want him to go. She did not want Legolas to go either, of course, but Thranduil… If the dragon's treasure led the king and his army into a fight, Narylfiel understood the risk. No matter their great prowess or strength, any one of them could be killed. Her eyes drifted over to the scene unfolding in the corner where the prince and his princess were still saying their farewells. She needed to be here for her sister; Thaliniel had always been there for her. But it seemed as though Legolas was not in any hurry to leave. Perhaps Narylfiel could steal a few minutes away to see the king—just for a second or two—before he left._

_She was out the door and hurrying down the hall before either of them noticed. She saw one of the Royal Guard further down the long corridor, waiting patiently outside the king's study. Elfir gave her a small smile when she approached, and he gestured for her to go inside, but Narylfiel hesitated. She peeked inside and saw the king leaning over his enormous desk with numerous lists spread before him._

" _Go on," Elfir whispered kindly and nudged her. "He'll want to see you."_

_The king looked up, his long unbound hair framing his face, as she took a timid step into the room._

" _I don't want you to go," she said quietly from the doorway._

_Thranduil's mouth curved for a moment into an almost smile. "I cannot in good faith allow the works of our people to be lost in that mountain or to be claimed for some dark purpose."_

_She met his eyes from across the room. "You are worth more than any of those gems or jewels, my lord."_

_He set his pen down on the blotter next to the inkbottle and straightened. "As king, I would defend the heritage of our people, naurenniel. There are works in that mountain that the dwarves pillaged in the sack of Doriath long ago."_

" _I do not care about any old stones or necklaces," Narylfiel said and bit her lip, adding almost inaudibly, "I care about you."_

_The king's eyes drifted down to his neat lists of warriors, called up to service and sorted into ranks for battle, and when he looked up, she was gone. He moved around his desk to the doorway and watched her retreating form, already halfway down the hall._

" _She does not understand," the king said quietly to his guard._

" _No, my lord," agreed Elfir stoically, but his eyes were sympathetic as they watched Narylfiel's retreat. He had seen what the king had not—Narylfiel's eyes when she left. But it was not his place to give the king advice, so Elfir remained silent and kept watch._

_The king stood beside him, his eyes following the elleth all the way down the hall until she turned and went into the sitting room. Then Thranduil returned to his desk and eyed the parchment lists of his troops, the sum of his armies._

_His eyes drifted to the door where Narylfiel had been standing a minute ago. She did not want him to go._

_He pushed a frustrated hand through his hair and then sank into his chair behind his desk. Picking up his glass of wine that he had poured earlier, but had left untouched, Thranduil held the comfortable weight of it in his hand, and stared at the dark red vintage. Through the glass, he could still make out the names of his warriors on the thick parchment. The wine's dark tint blotted out the rest from view. The king's throat tightened, and he sat the elegant glass down._

_He had already called his reserves to leave for battle in the morning. He would not change his mind now; part of a king's duty was to make the difficult decisions._

* * *

November 3018, Third Age:

Thranduil's throat tightened as he stared out the door from his balcony. The citadel and King's Hall were in the center of the city. All around, everywhere he looked were stonewalls, winding streets, thatched and tile rooftops, and smoking stovepipes. He knew he should not feel this way; after all, he lived underground, but here, he felt suffocated. It was this place, he decided, these walls. His memories from the battle were still too fresh, the cries of the goblins, the twisted, trampled bodies of his warriors lying ruined in the streets.

One look at Dale, and his guilt consumed him.

He hadn't allowed it to interfere last time when he had brought Narylfiel here, bleeding and grey. Her welfare had been his only concern. But now… he felt trapped.

His eyes searched past the walls to the dark line of green on the horizon when a muffled thump and a whirl of blue fabric collided onto his balcony.

Narylfiel. She popped up, caught her balance, and curtsied. "Surprise?" she said, her brown eyes anxiously searching his.

Thranduil pushed past her and stared at the distance from her room's window to his balcony and then the distance down to the courtyard below, a straight deadly drop more than just a few stories high. He swallowed hard, and the fear and anger must have shown in his eyes when he turned to her because Narylfiel bit her lip and took a small step back.

"Did you hurt yourself?" Thranduil inquired brusquely, pulling her to him to check her over, willing himself to calm down.

"Just my dignity," Narylfiel said and winced, "and maybe my backside."

"I can look that over too," Thranduil offered, his humor returning, as he smoothed her hair.

"Thranduil!" Scandalized, Narylfiel scooted away.

He pursed his lips. "What were you thinking? Even elf kind cannot survive a fall from this height!"

"I missed you," she said simply.

"You could not have waited until dinner time?" Thranduil continued, even though his heart warmed to hear her say that she wanted to be with him. He had missed her too. "Or used the doors?"

"Elfir and Dorwil are both out there," Narylfiel complained, glancing toward the inside of his room.

"I am pretty sure that Elfir and Dorwil have figured out by now that you like to visit me," Thranduil said flatly.

"I didn't think that Elfir would let me see you," she said plaintively. "He lectured me earlier on propriety."

"I know," Thranduil told her. "I asked him to."

"He did not like that I was so friendly with Prince Bard," Narylfiel continued on blithely until what he just said dawned on her. "Wait…" she said and her eyes narrowed a little. "You _asked_ Elfir to talk to me earlier?"

"Yes," Thranduil said, folding his arms behind his back.

"Thranduil!" Narylfiel cried, stung by his admission. "Why would you do that?"

"You are part of my household, Narylfiel. I want your behavior to be a credit to your station, especially now that the guard has joined us," Thranduil told her, his melodic voice sharpening into his king's voice.

"But why would you not just talk to me yourself? Why Elfir?" Her voice rose a little as she gestured angrily toward his door.

"Keep your voice down," Thranduil warned, "unless you want Elfir to come in right now and find us together."

"I don't like being chastised by one of your guards for my behavior," Narylfiel ground out, her cheeks hot. "If you have something you want to tell me, I want to hear it from you."

Thranduil turned away, gathered his hair over his shoulder and entering his finely appointed room, took a seat on one of the small chairs by the hearth. He met her eyes and motioned for her to join him, making it clear that he would not say anything until she came in off the balcony and sat down.

The fire still burning in her eyes, Narylfiel plopped down across from him.

"I am still your king, Narylfiel," Thranduil cautioned her. "And I do not want you to give the elves in the guard any reasons to object to our union, to you."

"So you handed down a warning for Elfir to deliver to me?" Narylfiel folded her arms and added, "And you cannot see how that might upset me?"

"You embraced Prince Bard," Thranduil admitted quietly, "and you cannot see how that might upset me?" He stared at her coolly, crossed his legs and waited for her response.

Narylfiel let out an exasperated sigh. "He had just told me his wife died last spring, Thranduil. I felt horrible."

"He held onto your hand afterward," the Elvenking countered. "I did not like to see him claim such familiarity with you. After Legolas said—"

"After Legolas said what?" Narylfiel cut him off. "That Prince Bard is 'besotted' with me? Please!"

"Mind your voice, Narylfiel," Thranduil warned her in a harsh whisper, "unless you want Elfir to know that you are in my quarters."

" _You_ apparently have no objection to Elfir being in the middle of our relationship," Narylfiel hissed and then raised her voice, "so he can just join us if he wants to!"

Thranduil gave her a dark look and then stood abruptly from his chair. "If you do not wish to be treated like a child, then I suggest you stop acting like one." He swept past her to the door in his room, opened it just barely, and spoke quietly with Elfir and Dorwil. Then he closed the door behind him and looked imperiously at the young elleth sitting defiantly across the room.

"Come here," he told her, his eyes so stern that his eyebrows drew into a single formidable line.

For just a moment, Narylfiel considered being difficult and refusing his request, but then she reluctantly stood and crossed the room.

"I do not wish to fight with you," he said carefully. "I have sent the guards away so that you may return to your room unseen, and we will talk about this after dinner. I will think about what you said, and I would hope that you would do the same."

Narylfiel's eyes burned, and she willed herself not to cry, not now. She was so upset with him, so frustrated.

"Yes, Thranduil." She managed to keep her voice even. He held the door open and she exited without another glance in his direction.

Once inside her own room, she launched herself onto her bed, heedless of wrinkling her dress and buried her face in one of the pillows. She thought if she could just cry, then she might feel better. Except the more she thought about their fight and his words, the angrier she became. Every time. Every single time she and Thranduil disagreed or even argued, and they both were stubborn and had tempers of their own, in almost every occasion, he reminded her that he was the king. Well, he was the king, but that did not mean he was innately right.

He had sent her away to her room like a disobedient child!

A loud thump and then a crash sounded on the other side of her wall. Narylfiel sat up and frowned, her eyes instantly drawn to the wall shared by the Elvenking's room. She absently rubbed her chest over her heart, where she used to feel her bond with him; only now, it felt horrible, like an open, gaping hole—raw and hurt, lacking from the something wonderful it only had for too short of a time.

She shivered. It was unnatural to feel the cold this way; she supposed it to be a lingering effect of the poison…or perhaps because she had left her window open.

Snow had begun to fall again, and a cold gust snapped at her curtains, frosted the panes of glass. Numbly she stood and wandered toward the window to close and lock it when a sudden movement outside caught her eye.

It was Thranduil. He had stalked onto the balcony and stood at the railing, his hands firmly planted on the railing, his eyes focused on something in the distance.

Narylfiel stared at him for a second, love and anger warring in her chest. He was perfectly still, his whole frame rigid, and already snow lined his arms and shoulders and glistened in his hair like a wintery circlet. He was ever the king, the Elvenking, and she could not help but wonder if he now regretted kissing her, or even making that original healer's bond with her in the first place.

A disappointed sigh escaped her lips before she could think better of it, and Thranduil's head snapped toward her. Narylfiel froze.

He did not say anything but stared at her, with a mixture of hurt and confusion lingering in his very expressive eyes, and the snow continued to fall and swirl between them.

Narylfiel held his gaze. She was not going to back down or apologize for losing her temper—she was in the right this time. She shivered again, breaking the spell between them, and Narylfiel rubbed her arms against the cold. Thranduil took one more long look at her and then stormed off the balcony.

Narylfiel was in the process of shutting and locking her window when someone knocked on her door. She hardly made it half way across the room when the doorknob rattled and Thranduil barged in.

"You could not wait five more seconds for me to answer the door, my lord?" Narylfiel asked, folding her arms.

"No, I could not," he answered her simply and crossed the room in less than three steps to her. Before she could protest or even knew what he was going to do, Thranduil caught Narylfiel in his arms and kissed her, his lips hot and insistent against her mouth, all heat and fire and conquest, his hands diving into her hair so his thumb could rub a warm pattern against the back of her neck before he wrapped his arms tightly around her.

"I don't want us to argue," he whispered fiercely and kissed her again. For a second, she forgot about their fight. This moment, this right here—his warm breath against her cheek and his hands running through her hair and down her back, pulling her into him, this was all she had wanted in the first place, and Narylfiel simply melted into his warmth, his embrace. She loved him, and when he held her and kissed her so, she could imagine that he might love her a little too.

"I thought you said we were going to talk more after dinner…" Her voice trailed away.

Thranduil shook his head. "At the window, you shivered—I saw you," he said and took hold of her hand, turning it over in his own. "You still feel the cold?" He pressed his hand to her forehead.

"A little," she confessed, and he did not need to hear any more. Thranduil protectively tightened his arms around her.

"The poison was strong enough to damage your hroä, so it might just take some time before you have your strength back," he told her and confessed, "I don't like seeing you hurt."

"It's just the cold, but—" Narylfiel said and hesitated.

"What?" the king pressed.

She blushed and ducked her head. "I miss having the bond with you. Even if it was from a short period of time, I can feel the absence of it—and it's horrible." She sighed and rubbed the empty feeling spot over her chest. "Do you know what I'm talking about? It sounds foolish."

"It's not foolish, Narylfiel," Thranduil said quietly. His eyes were pained. "And it's entirely my fault. The longer a healing bond is in place, the more difficult it is to remove. It's only supposed to be a temporary measure, and I let yours go on too long."

Reluctantly he let go of her and picked up a blanket from the foot of the bed, wrapping it around her shoulders. "For now, stay warm. Get some rest. We'll talk more after dinner."

She watched him go through long lashes as she adjusted the blanket around her shoulders. Her heart still pounded wildly in her chest, and his taste still lingered on her lips. She waited until he was almost out of her room to inform him, "I am still really upset with you, Thranduil. You can't just barge in and think a few kisses excuses what you did."

He turned, his hand on the doorknob. "I would imagine not, Narylfiel, but perhaps I have more in mind than a few kisses for after dinner," he replied easily, and with a wicked curve to his lips, he shut the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave Kudos, Comment, Bookmark! I’m new to AO3 and would love to meet you! 
> 
> Thranduil: #MoreInMind
> 
> Narylfiel: #Eep


	18. Challenging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil reluctantly attends dinner in Dale...

_Four hundred years ago..._

_Her eyes fixed on the scribbled-on parchment between them, Narylfiel leaned across the table from King Thranduil._

" _This cannot happen," she said and pointed to the sheet. Then with him watching, she picked up his pen from the inkwell and scratched a thick, drippy line through his perfectly penned set of names._

_Thranduil had invited the young elleth to plan the upcoming Feast of Starlight with him. Galadhor, his chief of staff, had encouraged the idea, hinting that Narylfiel would benefit from some gainful employment of her time._

_Now the king arched an eyebrow at her new addition to his well thought out seating arrangement. A look that he had cultivated over the years, the singular arched brow was particularly effective in silencing his opposition._

_Narylfiel's mouth curved into a smile, and she mirrored him with an eyebrow raise of her own. "I can do that too," she said. "Thaliniel hates it, but secretly?" she leaned in a little. "I think she's just a little jealous that she can't do it!"_

_Thranduil would not be deterred. "Why do you believe that Lady Selieth should not sit with Lord Erndir?" He asked, pointing to where she had just crossed out the pairing at the table._

_Narylfiel's cheeks pinkened. "Promise not to get mad, King Thranduil?" she asked, her sweet brown eyes round and wide._

_Thranduil nodded. "Do I ever?" he asked her._

_She hesitated. "Well…"_

" _Narylfiel, tell me what happened," he coaxed._

_Her words spilled out in a rush. "Dorwil had just given me a new handball. He said he just had one made for his little nephew and thought I might like one too. You know, for playing rounders. Well, I was practicing catching and missed the ball. It sailed right past me, so I chased it. I hated to lose it, so I—"_

_Thranduil interrupted her. "Does any part of this story explain why Lady Selieth cannot sit down to dinner next to Lord Erndir?"_

_Narylfiel looked down and picked at the corner of the parchment. "I may have been in the act of retrieving the ball from under a table when I happened to hear Lady Selieth ungraciously refuse Erndir's advances." Narylfiel was no expert, but it sounded like she had slapped the fire out of him._

_Thranduil held up a hand. "I have heard enough. Rounders, indeed. Inside my halls? Whoever did you talk into pitching for you?"_

" _Ooh, I don't think I can rightly indulge that information, my lord," she said sweetly. It had been Legolas._

" _Friends can tell each other," he prodded._

" _No, my lord," she said respectfully._

" _Oh, enough phony formality, you!" he said with a snort. "Anyone with enough cheek to play rounders in my Great Hall had better just call me by my given name."_

" _Really?" she perked up, a small grin teasing the corners of her mouth._

" _Yes," said the king, "and only in our private company, mind you."_

" _Well, in that case, Thranduil," she said trying out his name to his amused expression. "How about taking a break?" She produced a palm-sized ball from the pocket in her skirt. "Want to throw the ball around?"_

_He eyed the ball. "Really?" It sounded more like a statement._

_Narylfiel tossed the ball up into the air and caught it. "As a friend, I would tell you that someone said you had a pretty decent arm."_

_She tossed the ball back into the air. Only this time, Thranduil's hand swooped in and caught it right before she could. "I would say it was more than just 'decent,'" he told her._

_With a gleam in her eye, she hopped up from her chair._

" _Prove it," she challenged him.  
_

* * *

November 3018, Third Age

"You are looking exceptionally well this evening, Lady Narylfiel," King Thranduil greeted her warmly, as she took his arm. Elfir and Dorwil followed in tow, and the four elves proceeded to King Brand's dining hall, a long room with a singularly impressive table that dominated the room.

"I cannot help but notice that you acquired new clothes, my lord," Narylfiel whispered conspiratorially as they waited to be seated. Thranduil had shed his stained traveling clothes in favor of a beautifully tailored, but simple dark grey tunic with a high open collar.

"Galion, bless him," replied the king. "He packed an extra bag along with Dorwil, 'just in case.' Remind me to thank him."

Narylfiel had high hopes of being able to spend more time in conversation with her king during dinner, but sadly, the squires seated Thranduil to the right of the head of the table, and Narylfiel five seats down the opposite side. Elfir and Dorwil sat next to their king, and Narylfiel could only wonder who could fill the other seats next to her. She imagined that the King would take his place at the head of the table, and the Queen would occupy one chair.

She did not have to imagine for very long. King Brand and his queen appeared, all smiles as everyone stood upon their entrance, with their son following behind them. King Brand took his place at the head of the table, with the queen to his left. Two seats were still left empty after Prince Bard pulled out the chair next to Narylfiel and sat down by her with a friendly smile.

"Who are those other two seats for, Prince Bard?" Narylfiel quietly inquired. They were obviously meant for someone of high stature or importance to be placed so closely to the king and queen.

Bard glanced at the two remaining seats while the rest of his father's court slowly took their seats, milling around the table, many of them inventing reasons to drift closer to the king and queen in order to get a better glimpse of the elven visitors. "Oh, they'll be along shortly—only just arrived from Erebor," he said casually.

Dwarves, Narylfiel thought and her eyes flitted toward her king.

From across the table, Thranduil stilled in the middle of his lively conversation with Elfir, his ears catching Bard's mention of the dwarves' mountain. He cast his eyes toward the two empty seats across from him, and his mouth straightened into a line. The Elvenking swallowed a grimace and schooled his expression into one of bored disinterest.

"What?" Bard asked, seeing his friend's eyes widen. "Did I say something wrong?" But Narylfiel hardly heard him. Her entire focus was on Thranduil, as the people at the table quieted upon the herald's announcement of the two late dinner guests.

"Presenting to you, Prince Thorin III and Lord Dwalin of Erebor!"

The three other elves had grown completely rigid at the herald's words, and marking the direction of Thranduil's cold gaze, Narylfiel turned in her seat to watch the two dwarves thunder across the dining room to their seats, just across from the Elvenking.

Both the dwarves' faces were a picture of horror and disbelief as soon as they noticed their elven dinner companions, even more so to see that one of those elves was the Elvenking himself. Clearly, they were as surprised as Thranduil was; only the Elvenking was much better at hiding his revulsion.

King Brand clapped delightedly. "How proud I am to have rulers from both Erebor and Mirkwood at my table at the same time. May this be the first of many such happy occasions."

Thranduil's eyes shifted to King Brand. "My lord, I believe we are a little—" and he eyed the dwarves—"short on introductions."

"Oh, so you have never met Prince Thorin?" exclaimed the king. "Then may I have the honor of presenting Prince Thorin III, son of King Dain, and Lord Dwalin to you, King Thranduil."

"We've met," Dwalin said gruffly under his breath.

Thranduil looked coolly across the table, appraising the pair of them. Young Thorin favored his predecessor greatly, he decided. "The honor is mine," he told King Brand with a dignified nod of his head, "to meet a prince of Erebor in such refined circumstances."

The young dwarf prince stroked his beard in turn and carefully regarded the elf king. "Long have I heard… stories of you, King Thranduil," he said with mock politeness.

"Haven't we all?" King Brand said admiringly. "It does my heart good to see the pair of you together. Just like the old glory days!"

"In truth, I never fully believed them," Thorin said. "Silly tales. I mean what king, or any man really, would wear a crown of berries in his hair?"

Thranduil sipped his wine. "Come visit my kingdom, Prince Thorin, and I would be happy to enlighten you," he drawled, "if you're not too short on time."

Thorin bristled a little, but fortunately the serving girls and cupbearers began to bring out the first course. The dwarves both delightedly attacked their dinner, tucking their napkins into their collars and taking great mouthfuls. It seemed as though the dwarf prince briefly forgot about the snide insult offered by Thranduil; Dwalin leaned over between bites and whispered several somethings in Thorin's ear.

Conversation picked back up as the guests finished their first course. King Brand asked the Elvenking what he thought of the dwarves' improvements to Erebor.

"Impressive," commented Thranduil. "The new stone gate will serve the dwarven people well before this war has ended."

"I was most sorry to have missed King Thranduil's visit to Erebor. I had only just returned when I heard about how _eventful_ it was. The king needed medicine to heal his lovely companion; of course, my father was only too happy to help," Thorin informed the table.

"Mirkwood is most grateful, of course," Thranduil replied tepidly, his eyes briefly going to Narylfiel.

She opened up her mouth to say something, and both Thranduil and Elfir gave her the tiniest of head shakes 'no.'

"I think it shows a great sense of community and common spirit of cooperation that the dwarves and elves could work together," King Brand told the table, finally beginning to pick up on the uncomfortable rift between his two guests. He remembered his father telling him about the lack of love between dwarves and elves, but the Battle of the Five Armies had happened so long ago. Surely after all these years, the bad feelings would have dissolved…or not.

Meanwhile Bard reached for Narylfiel's hand , covered it with his own. "You never mentioned that you were injured," he said softly, his voice full of concern.

"I was nicked by an orc's poisoned blade, but the king healed me." Her explanation suddenly seemed much louder than she intended, for most of the conversation around her had died down, and her words, although spoken softly rang clearly down the table for all to hear. Narylfiel blushed as soon as she realized what happened and moved both her hands into her lap. She did not dare to look at Elfir or Dorwil right now. Who knew what they could be thinking?

"Elvish medicine is _so_ interesting," Thorin said pleasantly to the table, and his blue eyes gleamed. "From what I hear, King Thranduil puts his patients into a trance and pulls the poison from the wound with elf magic."

A few gasps sounded along the table, and more than a few guests craned their heads to peek at the Elvenking.

At this point, Elfir did not wait to defer to his king. He spoke up at once in an easy, matter-of-fact tone, "I dare say it would seem like magic to mortal folks, but this type of healing is common enough among elf kind—just using a deep healing sleep to balance the humors of the body."

"With the patient's feä…in his bedroom," grumbled Dwalin, his cheeks taking on a rosy hue. Now most of the guests missed this comment, but it certainly did not go unheeded by Elfir or Dorwil, who both as if drawn by an invisible hand, moved their heads in time to peer curiously at Narylfiel.

Thranduil gave both dwarves a withering look. "Do not presume, dwarf, to understand matters beyond your ken."

Now Prince Thorin was young and lived and spoke with the carelessness of the young and privileged. Only had he ever heard stories of this Elvenking, and having never met him personally, did not pay much credence to the fair-haired king sitting across from him. He was just too fair, too androgynous, with his long hair and eyelashes to be taken as a serious threat. Rather than mind the king's thinly veiled warning, he merely shrugged and laughed. "Sounds like it could be… barrels of fun."

King Brand, hearing the conversation completely unravel, quickly signaled for his wait staff to serve the next course.

Thranduil, along with Dorwil and Elfir, ignored the jab about barrels and talked amongst themselves. Both of the guards knew better than to bring up any mention of the dwarves' insinuations about Narylfiel.

Now, this increasingly unpleasant combination of dinner guests might have resulted in another Battle of the Five Armies, but the Valar, or perhaps just plain good fortune, intervened. Before the next course could be served, one of King Brand's marshals hurried to the table and whispered his urgent news. Upon hearing it, Brand immediately folded his napkin and signaled to his son.

"Come," he said to King Thranduil. "Your guards have returned. They've brought prisoners." He stood, and the elves gracefully followed suit. The dwarves, not to be left out, of course, abruptly stood as well, their chairs screeching against the stone floors.

"You just love taking prisoners, don't you?" accused Thorin as he sped up to match the men and elves' long strides. He would not be left behind!

"Only those that annoy me," replied the king with a smirk, hopeful that his guards had caught that miserable Maubûrz.

Brand led his guests down to the city jail, set beneath the proud foundation of the citadel; rarely did the cells see many visitors, for Dale was by in large a fair and prosperous little kingdom. The captain of Brand's City Guard waited there, along with Thranduil's warriors, all of whom turned in a smart elven salute when he entered the room with Brand.

The Forest Guard had not been able to find Maubûrz. The coward had fled the camp before the elves arrived, but they had seized all of the possessions in the spies' camp and caught four of the cut-throats who had been at the camp. The Elvenking recognized them immediately.

"Yes, those men were there," Thranduil told King Brand. "Are any of them from your city?"

"Who are these people?" Thorin interrupted. He did not like being uninformed, and certainly not in front of elves!

"Spies," hissed Thranduil, throwing a dark look toward the men in the cells. He purposefully spoke loud enough now, so all might hear his words. "Their crimes are numerous. These men attacked and imprisoned the King of the Woodland Realm. They openly admitted to spying on Erebor and Dale to sell information to the Easterners."

Both the dwarves stiffened, and their eyes glinted fiercely. "Sounds like treason against three kingdoms!" Dwalin cried. "Would you like to borrow my ax, your highness? Let's take off their heads, and be done with them!"

A collective moan of anguish sounded from the cells. "No, please!" and "Fair, King Brand, don't let them chop our heads off!" and a few other pleas could be heard from behind the bars.

One of the Forest Guards stepped forward, holding a plain wooden box. "Your majesty," he said, addressing his king with a polite bow of his head, "we found this chest in their leader's tent."

Thranduil exchanged a look with Brand as he took the box from his warrior's hands, opened it so all might see. Well, almost all.

"What is it?" grumbled Thorin, craning his neck. "What'd your pointy eared scout find?"

The Elvenking appraised Thorin's jibe through half-lidded eyes and then angled the open box so the dwarves could look inside too.

"Little glass-stoppered bottles?" exclaimed Dwalin, and then his eyes grew round as a fearful suspicion crept into his mind. He turned and whispered his guess to Thorin.

King Thranduil nodded, pursed his lips. Then passing the box off to Elfir, the Elvenking withdrew a single bottle, uncorked it in front of King Brand, his guards, and the dwarves. "Poison." He drew the word out slowly as he held the bottle to the light, illuminating the dark viscous liquid. "I would wager this is the same poison that has been making your young warriors so ill," he told the dwarves, "the very same that nearly killed Lady Narylfiel." His eyes landed on the prisoners in the cell.

"But orcs poisoned Lady Narylfiel," challenged Prince Bard, eyes flashing. "Are you saying that these men are selling poison to orcs?" He did not wait for an answer, but stormed over to the nearest cell and throwing open the door, seized the prisoner by the collar and shook him. "Tell us!" he ordered him, with another savage shake. "Your life may depend on it."

Elfir exchanged a glance with his king. "Your majesty, we cannot even be sure that these bottles hold the same poison. We cannot really be certain unless we test it."

"You are right, Elfir," concluded the king, eyeing young Bard still gripping the prisoner. "Bring that one over here."

"What? No!" shrieked the ruffian. "No, please, my lord. Don't let those elves do anything unnatural to me!"

Bard twisted the man's arm and forced him forward. "Then tell us what you know," he growled, jerking the man to cower in front of a very impassive Elvenking.

"I don't know anything," the man wailed, feebly trying to twist against Bard's firm hold on him.

"I still say we cut off his head," barked Dwalin, running a light finger over the blade of his ax.

"Tilt back his head and open his mouth," Elfir commanded, and Dorwil pushed forward to carry out the order.

"No!" screeched the prisoner, crumpling in front of Dale's prince. "I just tended the horses and the like at camp. Maubûrz said he could make it worth my while! He—he's the one you want! Maubûrz was getting the poison at Dale. Said he had buyer in the south." He hiccoughed and wiped his nose with his sleeve. "But he hadn't sold it yet. He was going to bring information back to his emperor about Dale's walls and Erebor, too!"

Elfir and Dorwil exchanged a disappointed look. "Well, that hardly took any effort at all."

"A dwarf would've never cracked so easily," Dwalin muttered with a disbelieving shake of his head.

Brand was pleased. "We will call a tribunal tomorrow for judgment," he announced to his marshal and guards. "Bard, will you return to the feast and tell your mother not to worry? Make our excuses to the other guests?"

The prince bowed to his father. "Yes, of course."

The king of Dale signaled for his guests to follow him to a small antechamber where they might speak privately for a moment.

Thorin's eyes drifted to the Elvenking. "So what you told my father is true," he said resignedly. "War really is upon us."

"Yes," Thranduil agreed solemnly, "and against an enemy who will stop at nothing to destroy all of our kingdoms."

"I do wish we might have caught this Maubûrz fellow." King Brand rubbed the side of his temple.

Thranduil nodded his agreement but added, "He does not concern me nearly so much as the buyer of this poison, who is still at large and unknown."

Dwalin leaned on the long handle of his ax—he hadn't yet had the heart to put it away. "Seems like we have Maubûrz's entire supply. If he still has that buyer, he may try to restock," he grumbled under his breath.

All three of the elves, with their superior hearing, eyed the stocky bald dwarf with new interest.

"Say that again…" breathed Elfir, sharing a glance with his king.

* * *

Later that evening, Narylfiel changed into her nightgown and curled up by the fireplace. She could scarcely sit still from wondering what her Elvenking had meant by 'more in mind' when she heard a knock at the door. With her eyes shining, she pulled on her robe and eagerly flung open the door. Her beloved's name died on her lips. Thranduil was no where to be seen, but Bard stood at there, shyly rubbing the toe of his boot against some imagined scuff mark on the stone floor. Narylfiel stood there, stunned for a second, before realizing she was standing there in her nightgown! She quickly pulled her robe around her, belted it. She had been brushing her hair by the fire, so it was all hanging down, a straight fall of dark brown silk.

At first, Bard did not even say anything to her! He just stared a little, until finally Narylfiel cleared her throat and greeted him.

"What? Oh!" Bard shook his head, collected himself. "I'm sorry, Lady Narylfiel. Dalish maidens never wear their hair unbound like that…" his voice trailed off for a second, and his eyes grew distant. "When I was younger, I thought you were so lovely. A real elven princess like out of a story," Bard said, his hand moving with a force of its own toward her hair. "I always wanted to touch it just once to see if it was as soft as it looked."

Narylfiel pulled her hair together with her hand and pushed it back over her shoulder. "You shouldn't, Bard," she said quickly and pulled her robe a little tighter, crossed her arms in front of her chest. "It wouldn't be…appropriate for you to according to my people's customs."

Bard blanched. "Oh! I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend. Sometimes I forget the differences between our people."

"I know you didn't," Narylfiel said easily. "And for as many differences, there are just as many similarities.

"Well, good night then," he said, meeting her gaze after a beat. "Would it be too forward of me to ask to kiss your hand?"

"Yes, it would be," answered Thranduil, coming up behind the dark-headed man. "Run along, young Prince. Lady Narylfiel must rest."

Bard stiffened at Thranduil's words, two red splotches staining his cheeks. "Yes, of course. Until tomorrow, my lady," he said and excused himself with a courtly bow.

Thranduil watched him leave down the hall before leaning against the doorframe. Elfir and Dorwil were nowhere to be seen. "Were you brushing your hair?" he asked softly, his eyes darkening as he trailed his fingers through a section.

"I had just started to," she explained, twisting the brush in her hand.

"I thought I could brush it for you…while we talked," he said, taking the brush gently from her hand and replacing it with his other hand, "if you wish."

Her mouth fell open a bit at the look in his eyes, the intensity there. Oh, Valar. More in mind, indeed. "Yes," she heard herself say remotely. "I—uh, yes. Please."

He led her to the ottoman by the fire and bade her to sit upon the thick rug in front of the ottoman, while he sat down behind her. He gathered her hair into his hands and baring her neck, placed a warm kiss there.

Narylfiel sighed. He picked up the brush and ran it through her hair, smoothing down each section.

"I thought about what you said," he told her slowly, lifting a section of her hair away from her face and ear. His hand was warm on her shoulder.

"Did you?" she asked, trying desperately to sound demure.

"Yes." His voice was soft against her ear, his touch gentle as he ran the brush through another long strand of her hair. "I should not have used Elfir to talk to you. You were right about that."

She turned to face him, her brown eyes full of wonder. "You were right too. About Bard," she admitted. "I did not see it."

"He is not a bad fellow," the king owned with a small grin, "but definitely besotted."

"I would rather talk about us," Narylfiel told him, resting her hand on his knee.

"Us," the king tried out the word, his lips curving up. "I want that too. Narylfiel, I want to take you back to our forest and marry you, bond with you, make you mine." His last words came out in a whisper, his dark eyes meeting hers, and her breath caught; how long had she yearned for him to look at her like that? "But there will be questions—about you, about me, and probably my first wife. My marriage," he began, his smile fading at the mention of it, "was…difficult."

"This is the first time I have ever heard you bring up the subject." Narylfiel's voice betrayed her surprise. The king's marriage was ever an unspoken taboo topic at court.

Thranduil sighed and felt distinctly uncomfortable, but he made himself pick up another warm section of hair and glide the brush through the ends. "I am not sure how much you know, or what you've been told—"

"Nothing," she told him earnestly. "No one speaks of it. Ever. Only Legolas did once, when I asked him."

Thranduil set the brush down, then thought better of it and picked it back up, his long fingers gliding back through her hair as he found his voice. "My father wanted the match, and I…rebelled against the idea, up until we were to leave for the War of the Last Alliance. Elendil and Gil-galad were mustering as many armies as they could summon, and we were to leave in a week. She was beautiful and noble and courtly, and I was young and foolish, so I married her." His words hung in the air; the wind howled again against the citadel's stone walls.

Narylfiel turned just a little so their eyes could meet again. "Did you love her?" she asked in a small voice.

"Yes." Thranduil looked away, stared at the flames. "Yes, I loved her."

"I am sorry," Narylfiel said, pushing herself up to sit on her knees. Gently, she took the brush from his hand and set it aside. Then combing her own fingers through his hair, she leaned in and brushed her lips against his. "I am sorry," she repeated softly, pressing her lips to his forehead, then the corner of his mouth, then down to the column of his neck.

Her actions were rewarded with his sharp intake of breath. His fingers found her chin and guided her back up. His eyes betrayed his sorrow. "I wanted you to know, Narylfiel, to understand—I'm not perfect."

"Shhh!" she exclaimed and nudged him. "Don't let the dwarves ever hear you say that."

"I am being serious, Narylfiel." He leaned his head against hers and his voice grew quiet as he admitted aloud, "I am not sure I even know how to give what you're asking, what you will need. My marriage to Elarien was cold and distant, and most of that I fear was my fault. I returned from Dagorlad as King, but I was ill with grief, scarred and hurt from battle…and bitter." He shook his head and looked down.

"Maybe that's who you were then," Narylfiel told him, "but that is not who you are now."

Thranduil looked away, drawn to the swirl of snow outside the window, his eyes distant, and Narylfiel began to understand something she must have known for a long time—her beautiful king hid scars that no one knew of or could even guess at, and because of his pride, his strength, he bore the anguish of them alone. The empty feeling weighing down her heart twisted painfully for him, for them both.

With liquid eyes, she crawled into his lap and pressed her lips to his jaw and then the corner of his mouth. Thranduil sighed and then tenderly drew his finger across the line of moisture at her eyes. "Do not cry for me, naurenniel. No tears," he told her, drawing her against the warmth of his chest, one warm hand at her waist and the other rubbing her back.

"I have loved you for…well, as long as I can remember." Narylfiel whispered, her eyes starting to burn again from hearing herself speak those words aloud to him. "You speak as if I have some sort of decision to make, but for me, there is no choice. There never has been."

The silence after her words stretched between them, dulling the crackle of the fire on the hearth or the sound of the snow blowing against the window, until Thranduil tipped her head back and kissed her, his arms going around her shoulders and waist tightly, breathing her in through long hungry kisses. His mouth trailed kisses from her lips to her neck, his hands lifting her from the ottoman, pressing her onto the rug beneath him, and somehow in the blur of his attention, Narylfiel found herself stretched out on the rug, Thranduil propped up on his elbow, looking down at her, his hair soft against her cheek while his hands played with the belt of her robe.

"You should rest," he said quietly after kissing her deeply again. "Bedtime." Then he gathered her into his arms and carried her to bed.

"Stay," she whispered, catching hold of one of his hands.

He regarded her, his mouth slightly open and then bit his lip. She had never seen him do that before.

"Please, Thranduil," she asked. "I know that I cannot be with you all the time during the day, but at least now, when it's just us—I miss being with you."

"Be patient," he said, lifting her hand to his lips and pressing a kiss there. "It's hard now, but just try to be patient. When we return, I will meet with the Elder Council. Then by the Yule Feast, we will make our intentions known."

She nodded glumly, and then drawing off her robe, settled under the coverlet.

Thranduil watched her, his mouth curving up at her obvious disappointment. "Scoot over then," he said with a resigned air, like one admitting defeat. She brightened immediately and patted a spot beside her for him.

"Besides," he excused himself. "Your hands felt pretty cold just now, and I cannot in good faith leave you here alone shivering in the dark." He reached for the hem of his tunic and pulled it over his head. He let the garment drop to the floor.

"I would much rather have you shivering in the dark for other reasons," he said, and Narylfiel grinned up at him.

"Prove it," she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please Leave Kudos, Comment, and Bookmark!
> 
> Narylfiel: #Shivering
> 
> Thranduil: #ProvingIt


	19. Worried

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The unthinkable happens—
> 
> Thranduil finds himself agreeing with...
> 
> ...A DWARF. 
> 
> Brace yourselves. Things are about to get REAL.

_Three Hundred Years Ago…_

_Thaliniel sat down next to her sister on the settee by the fire in their shared sitting room. She looked amusedly at what Narylfiel had in her lap. "Embroidery?" she asked curiously._

_Narylfiel tried to stuff the design behind a cushion before her sister grabbed the corner and tugged it out._

" _Oh, it's…" Thaliniel stared at the piece and then tried tilting her head to make-out the subject._

" _It is supposed to be a Great Elk tea cozy," sighed Narylfiel, taking the offending piece of muslin from her sister's hand. "It's horrid, I know, but the king's name day is approaching…" She looked at it disgustedly and then wadded it up. "Hopeless."_

" _Well," Thaliniel paused, trying to think of something tactful to say, "it is a nice gesture. I think the king would like that you tried embroidery."_

" _You think so?" Narylfiel hopefully unwadded the fabric._

" _No," remarked a voice from the door. "He'll hate it for sure."_

_Both sisters turned and glared at the intruder, and Narylfiel chucked the misshapen tea cozy at Legolas' head._

_He gracefully dodged it and then grinned at her. "Narylfiel, your sister came in here to talk to you about something serious."_

_Thaliniel gave him a dark look. "I was getting to it."_

" _What are you, Legolas? The enforcer?" quipped Narylfiel and then stilled, her eyes going to Legolas in the doorway and then her sister, sitting primly by her side. "What kind of serious? Wait," Narylfiel said, her eyes widening. "Are you—are you…having a baby?"_

_Legolas blanched. "What? No!"_

_Thaliniel gave him another look. "No, this isn't about us, Narylfiel, and we are_ not _having a baby!" Then she smiled softly at her husband in the doorway. "Legolas, would you care to explain?"_

_He straightened from his slouch. "No, I was just leaving to…finish some schedules. I'll see you at dinner?" The prince quickly shut the door behind him._

" _What was all that about?" Narylfiel asked curiously._

_Thaliniel reached across the settee, patted her sister's hand. "Legolas is worried about you. He thinks of you as his little sister, you know, and there is no easy way to say this, so…"_

_Narylfiel gripped her sister's hand. "Thaliniel, whatever it is you can just tell me," she said frankly._

_Thaliniel's words came out in a rush: "Legolas heard some of the younger soldiers talking about you in the barracks, and some may have mentioned trying to get you to go to the next fire circle, and my husband just may have punched one or two of them in the face."_

" _What?" Narylfiel squeaked, her face feeling uncomfortably hot._

" _So Legolas asked if I had ever talked to you about those sorts of things," Thaliniel continued, barely looking at her sister from the corner of her eye as she played with the ruffle on her skirt. "And I know that we have not, but now you have come of age, you might have questions." She paused and made herself meet her younger sister's gaze. "Do you?"_

" _Do I what?" Narylfiel asked, a growing sense of horror falling upon her. Her sister, sweet and lovely Thaliniel, wanted to talk about fire circles or worse—other things?_

" _Narylfiel, you are a lovely grown elleth now," Thaliniel reminded her. "You might not see it as I do or Legolas does, but you have come of age—and I would not wish for you to be taken advantage of." She looked at her sister and added frankly, "Life here in the palace moves much quicker and certainly less conservatively than on our father's old vineyard."_

_Narylfiel sputtered a little. She was certain—could feel it even—that her ears were bright red and her neck felt disagreeably hot. She glanced at her sister and then smirked. Apparently Thaliniel was just as uncomfortable as she was, if the pink flush to her cheeks was any indication._

_Narylfiel cleared her throat, sipped some tea. "Thaliniel," she said carefully, staring at her hands in her lap. Her nails looked dreadful. Archer hands, to be sure. She kept her voice matter-of-fact: "We both grew up on a vineyard, a farm with animals. I know how mating works."_

_Her sister made a noise that sounded like a cross between a snort and a laugh. Her eyes were merry when she reached for Narylfiel's hands. "Oh, Narylfiel! It is much, much more, I promise you." She squeezed both her hands and then had the audacity to laugh out loud. "When you find the one, the right one, your heart will know it. Your body will know it, and his will too."_

_Narylfiel looked down, twisted a stray lock of hair hanging over her shoulder. "Was it like that for you and Legolas?"_

_Her sister closed her eyes just for a moment, her lips curving up at an obviously good memory. "Yes," she said, cutting her eyes to Narylfiel. "Yes, it was. It will be for you too."_

_Narylfiel nodded like she agreed. Inside, she was not so sure. She worried that her defiant little heart had settled on someone who could never love her like that, and not for the first time, Narylfiel secretly wished she could be just a little more like her older sister._

* * *

November, 3018:

Thranduil stretched out next to her in bed, his long frame and wide shoulders eating up all the extra space between them. "Let's see about getting you warmed up first," he told her, extending a dangerously chiseled arm across the pillows toward her. Narylfiel slid into his embrace, flushing at how warm he was; she could feel the radiant heat of his skin through her nightgown.

The nightdress was a source of amusement for her king. He grinned a little as he studied the double layer of lace around the yoke and ran a curious finger down the high collar and little pearl buttons trailing down the neck. "I would wager that a whole entire family of sheets gave their lives to make this confection," Thranduil teased, and then with her watching him, he popped open the top tiny pearl button on the high collar.

With a mischievous gleam in his eyes, he leaned over and placed a feather-light kiss on the tiny sliver of newly exposed skin, and her breath caught.

"Feeling a little warmer?" His voice was pure silk.

Actually, Narylfiel imagined that if she were to crawl into the fireplace, it could not possibly be hotter than she felt right now, but instead she pitifully shook her head. "It's pretty drafty in this room, my king."

Her answer elicited a slow smile from him, and he inched a little closer, close enough to slant his mouth over her slightly parted lips, softly at first, tasting her mouth against his, feeling her sharp intake of breath as he pressed her down against the pillows, his hand finding her hand, the hard planes of his chest against the softness of hers, while his other hand busily ticked the rest of the tiny pearl buttons open down past her collar bone. Thranduil paused then, admiring his handy work before meeting her eyes, soft and trusting, watching him.

"Lovely," he breathed as he trailed a lazy finger down from the opening of the first button at the top of her neck, past the hollow of her throat to the end of the pearls, a lacy edge gleaming against the soft rise of her chest.

She looked down and bit her lip, but then reached for him, running an unsteady hand from the strong line of his jaw down past the curve of his neck to rest against his chest. "I never thought…" Narylfiel paused and made herself meet his eyes, "that it could be like this for us." She pushed herself up on her elbow while keeping her hand warm against his skin and stopped right before her lips touched his. "I want you to touch me," she whispered against his mouth and pressed her lips to his, her body to his, her hand sliding around his back.

Her gentle ministrations lasted only a minute while Thranduil got over the shock of his little naurenniel issuing such commands of his person. His nonexistent bond with her, the very one he had convinced himself he had destroyed, flared up through his heart like a brilliant flame in the darkness. He was staggered and overcome by the realization, but his body was not, had never been. Similar to the scene in Narylfiel's dream-memory, Thranduil felt his control slip, feeling his hands go for her hips, exulting in how easily he was able to push her back into the blankets, cover her body with his own. His mouth found the generous expanse of her skin bared by those open buttons, and his hands quested down her body pulling her tightly against him.

A soft little moan escaped her lips, and Thranduil's heart rolled over at the sound. With the greatest reluctance, he broke away from her and leaned back against the headboard with a sigh.

"Valar," he swore, looking very boyish and more adorably tousled than any king had a right to look.

Narylfiel propped herself up on her elbow and watched him with through long lashes, her nightdress still very open at the neck, the skin there looking deliciously pink where he had just been extremely attentive.

"Why did you stop?" she asked, a little anxious. "Was it something I did?"

"Was it something…" Thranduil's voice trailed away, and he took a deep breath like he was trying to steady himself. "Narylfiel—it was everything you did."

Her eyes drifted down. "I see," she mumbled, but Thranduil lifted her chin to look at him.

"I did not mean that it was poorly done, dear one," he explained, "but I needed to stop." He threaded his fingers through her hair. "I would not have this rickety bed in Dale be our marriage bed." His eyes glinted wickedly. "Although we might have to bring along that nightgown."

"Then you had better be the one planning on wearing it," Narylfiel retorted. She sat up but did not bother to refasten her buttons. She rather liked the naughty feeling of the air against her neck, the memory of the king's mouth there. Thranduil lifted an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close to his chest.

"Warm enough now?" he asked as he reached for the candle beside her bed.

She nodded against his shoulder, and he blew out the candle, leaving the room in darkness, save for the remaining coals flickering in her fireplace. The king tugged the coverlet up around them, taking great care to cover her with it.

"I worry about disappointing you," she confessed quietly to the darkness. She never could keep anything from him.

Thranduil stilled. "What?" His question came out sharper sounding that he meant for it to, but he had heard what she said and did not want her to repeat it. He slid a little further down the pillow to look her evenly in the eyes. "Do not think that," he commanded her and then softened his request. "Narylfiel, please do not think that way."

She nodded, but then stared past him toward the fire.

Still unsure, Thranduil watched her for a moment. "No," he said after a long pause, leaning his head against hers. "Perhaps that feeling is only natural when..." He thought for a minute. "When you love someone, you want them to love you in the same way." He grew quiet then, but tightened his arm around her.

He held her that way and watched her until he was sure she had fallen asleep, and his mind lingered on her words.

"I worry about disappointing you too," he whispered to the dark.

* * *

A series of three sharp knocks sounded on her door an hour or so later, and a voice whispered from the hall, "King Thranduil, you are needed. There has been a development."

Flushed, Narylfiel sat up pulling the covers to her chest, and Thranduil was up immediately, his eyes grim as he slipped on his boots.

"How did Elfir know to look in my room for you? I did not hear him bothering with knocking on your door," she pointed out and frowned, as she struggled to fasten up the annoying little pearl buttons up the top of her nightgown.

Thranduil glanced over his shoulder, before he pulled his tunic back over his head. "I selected him as the head of the Royal Guard for a reason. I never deluded myself that Elfir would not know of our attachment; it was only a matter of how soon," he said. Turning, he glanced down at her and his eyes softened. "If you do all those buttons back up, I might take it as a challenge."

She pushed another pearl through the buttonhole with him watching and arched an eyebrow. "Challenge issued, my lord."

His only answer on his way out the door was to flash her a knowing smile.

Elfir knew better than to comment on his king's choice of sleeping arrangements. Instead, he bowed and immediately began to fill his leader in on the most recent development.

Since Dwalin's unassuming remark that Maubûrz might try to acquire more poison for his buyer, Elfir and Dorwil had arranged, with King Brand's permission, to supplement his night watch with the rest of King Thranduil's guards. Perhaps he or one of his henchmen would try to return to the city to buy more supplies from the apothecary's shop. Both Thranduil and his guards suspected that perhaps Maubûrz had help from inside the city, although none of them had voiced those suspicions to Dale's king.

A half hour ago, Dorwil spotted a lone figure emerge from the distant foothills and begin to travel on foot toward the southern walls of the city.

"It will be some time before he reaches the walls, your highness. King Brand and a few others have assembled to discuss his capture," Elfir concluded.

Thranduil nodded. "Take me to them," he said, and Elfir led the way. Neither said more about the possible intruder, and neither elf mentioned anything about Narylfiel. The king's mind, however, was full of both of these subjects, particularly the latter. Her health concerned him, and the feeling of his bond with her, the one that he thought he had painstakingly severed, which apparently still lingered, concerned him. Elfir, and probably Dorwil too, needed to be taken aside and talked to about his changing relationship with her. And when they returned to his kingdom, he needed to devise an extremely clever approach to arrange and announce their engagement.

The Elvenking quickly stowed those thoughts away when he saw the group gathered in a semi-circle in the main hall to discuss the possible intruder. King Brand, Prince Bard, a few of the marshals or captains of the city, those few he could tolerate, but errantly, King Brand had also sent for the dwarves, much to Thranduil's displeasure.

"Catching up on your beauty rest, King Thranduil?" Prince Thorin wryly asked as the elves joined the group. "Or more likely, catching up on resting with a beauty?" he whispered loudly in an aside to Dwalin behind his hand.

The Elvenking eyed them disdainfully before turning his attention to King Brand.

"Ah, King Thranduil. I am sure Lord Elfir told you the news. I would, of course, appreciate your wisdom in this matter," the King of Dale said, his son standing to his right, already dressed and armed.

"If this person is Maubûrz, then he is dangerous," Thranduil said. "He will not be easily apprehended, and he has both skill and training with the sword. I suggest that my guards watch him enter the city and track his movements, so we might understand his motives."

"It's possible that he and his men are responsible for selling the poison that made my warriors ill," Prince Thorin interjected, scowling at the Elvenking. "I demand his capture before he can wreak any more evil upon our people.'

Elfir quickly spoke up, "And he will be captured, I assure you, for did his poison not also harm one beloved to us? One that many of my people see as a daughter?" His grim eyes briefly met the Elvenking's, and Thranduil felt the full meaning of his guard's words to the dwarves. "Like shadows, we will follow him until the full meaning of his game has been laid bare; Dorwil and I will both take on this task, if our Majesty allows it."

"No one could be more suited to such a task," the Elvenking told the group of men and dwarves.

"I will go with them," Prince Bard volunteered, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Elfir hesitated and shared a glance with his lord before speaking. "I do not doubt your heart, nor your skill, Prince Bard, but you may be hard-pressed to keep up with our pace," Elfir warned. He did not mean to offer insult but merely intended to state a fact.

King Brand shook his head. "He goes. Then it is settled, and when you have captured this miscreant, you will bring him here for judgment."

Elfir saluted his king. "Dorwil and I will see it done, your highness," he vowed and then made ready to leave when one more voice rang out.

"I will go as well! This is a matter that also concerns Erebor," Prince Thorin declared, bypassing the Elvenking to follow the elf and the young man out the tall door into the dark courtyard.

Dwalin fiercely glared at the Elvenking as the door swung shut. "Don't even say it!" he barked.

Thranduil did not dignify this command with a response. Instead, he looked to King Brand, and assured him, "Your son could not be with two finer warriors from my guard. I have trusted the pair of them with my own life many times over."

King Brand nodded tiredly. "I cannot help but notice that this decision leaves you without security, your highness. May I offer a pair of my own guards to watch your and Lady Narylfiel's doors?"

"My thanks to you, but that will not be necessary," Thranduil said knowingly. "I am sure that Elfir has already arranged for another pair of guards to take their place."

Brand pulled out a chair from the table and sank down, clearly exhausted in the late hour. Thranduil wagered that the poor man had not slept at all since the arrival of the prisoners and the decision to increase the night's watch patrol for spies trying to enter the city.

"It may be some time before they return," the Elvenking advised, looking neither weary nor exhausted. In fact, he looked just as radiant as he had hours ago at dinner.

The dwarf Dwalin folded his arms and said nothing.

"I will find no rest while Bard is gone off on this mission," King Brand admitted. "I know that he is a grown man now, but a father's heart is hard to change."

"You could have asked him to stay in the citadel with you," Thranduil reasoned. "My two guards are more than capable on their own."

King Brand chuckled at the Elvenking's words. "You have a son, Prince Legolas, and does he stay back when you ask?" He shook his head. "No, I wager he does not."

The man's words struck a chord with the elf, and Thranduil pulled out a chair beside him and gracefully sat down. "No, you are right. He does not," he commiserated. "Much to my unending worry."

"Where is he now?" King Brand asked. "I am surprised the prince would not be here with you, if you do not mind my saying so."

The Elvenking sighed, his eyes briefly going to the dwarf beside him. Dwalin still had not budged, his eyes trained on the door from whence Prince Thorin left. "My son traveled to Rivendell, another elven realm and home of Lord Elrond, to attend a council there. Now he has taken it upon himself to volunteer for some foolish scheme of Elrond's, and probably Mithrandir's idea too," Thranduil frowned at the thought of the meddlesome wizard, always stirring up trouble. "No, Prince Legolas will not be returning for some time."

Not feeling the slightest bit chummy, Dwalin remained standing—he would not voluntarily sit by such a creature!—but he did finally turn and stonily glance at the pair of kings behind him. "We got word that one of ours is going on some quest too," he said gruffly. "Gimli, Gloin's son—didn't say much, but it didn't sound good."

King Brand nodded and leaned back in his chair, appraising the two very different men beside him, well, elf and dwarf. Fair and dark, graceful and burly. Brand rather thought they had much in common but would never say so out loud. Instead he steepled his hands and observed, "Seems like this Lord Elrond is a rather conniving fellow. Why would he not send his own men on this mission?"

"My thoughts exactly!" exclaimed King Thranduil.

"I agree completely," growled Dwalin at the exact same time.

Both the Elvenking and the dwarf peered at each other from the corner of their eyes.

Then Dwalin folded his arms again with a harrumph, and Thranduil crossed his legs and stared at a tapestry on the opposite wall.

Nobody else said anything for a good long while, but King Brand sat back with a pleased and more than a little smug expression on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please Comment, leave Kudos, and Bookmark/Subscribe! I love to meet readers! 
> 
> Meanwhile, Thranduil may be going into shock over inadvertently agreeing with a dwarf.
> 
> Thranduil: #FeelingFaint #NeverAgain
> 
> Dwalin: #DenyEverything


	20. Defensive

_November, 2941:_

_Thranduil really hated camping, at least the sort of camping that required him to stay in a miserable tent put up by his Royal Guard amid the ruins of Dale next to a desolate mountain reeking of dragon stench. He supposed the tent was nice enough, and they had carted along enough comforts to make his stay during the siege tolerable, but he would really rather be back in the splendor of his own hall._

_To make matters worse, those foolish dwarves had survived the wrath of the dragon against all odds and were now being pigheadedly selfish about parting with the elvish heirlooms in the mountain, the legacy of his people. Well, he would see how fond they were of those white gems in a month from now, when their food had run out and they were all tightening their belts._

_Bard, the leader of the Laketown refugees seemed to think that the dwarves might want to reach some sort of compromise, but Thranduil knew better. In fact, he had told the dragon-slayer plainly that dwarves—_

_"Father.” Legolas appeared in the doorway, interrupting his thoughts. "The archers are in position, and we have scouted around the mountain. There is no sign of Thorin's company receiving any reinforcements from the north or to the west."_

_"Good," Thranduil said and stood, snapping the map he had been studying down on the table. "Keep the perimeter surrounded. Give the order to shoot anything that moves."_

_Legolas' eyes flickered to the map. "You think they will call for aid from their kin?"_

_"I am sure they will try," the king said silkily, "but to no avail." He smirked at the idea of his archers' superior range._

_"Father," Legolas began carefully, and then thought better of what he was going to say and poured Thranduil a drink. "Do you really intend to go to war with the dwarves? Over what, a handful of gems?_

_Sipping his wine, Thranduil peered out the door of his tent toward the mountain, his voluminous robes gleaming in the lamplight. The mountain loomed darkly grey against the deepening twilight, and the king could hear the clatter and hum of the men and women of Laketown kindling their fires, calling their children. They would be starving in the cold, if he had not brought provisions. Thorin had promised them much but had delivered nothing, only grief._

_"This is about more than just a few gems, my son," Thranduil insisted, his eyes flashing. "You were not there at the sacking of Doriath, but I was. The dwarves betrayed my king and queen, looted and robbed the city of its treasures. I cannot forget, and I cannot forgive so readily. I would reclaim the legacy of our people and see it restored."_

_"These dwarves did not sack, Doriath," Legolas firmly pointed out. "That was ages ago."_

_"No, these dwarves did not sack Doriath," said Thranduil. His voice simmered with contempt. "These dwarves only trespassed through our realm, insulted us in our own halls, and then had the temerity to wake a dragon! A dragon, who razed Laketown, our trade partners, to the ground, and Smaug would not have stopped there, had Bard not killed him." He slammed his goblet down on the table and hissed, "We could easily have been next, with Smaug coming to our halls, to rain fire and ruin upon our forest, to destroy our home, our kin."_

_"Yes, my lord," Legolas agreed reluctantly. In the corner of the tent, his father's armor gleamed like a fall of bright leaves, emblazoned silver, and Legolas wondered at his own resolve to carry out his lord's wishes._

_"We have to think of our people's future, Legolas." The king gestured toward the mountain. "Do we really want to see the restoration of a dwarvish stronghold so close to our realm that will compete with us for trade partners? One who clearly cares nothing for the well-being and safety of their neighbors?"_

_Legolas eyed the map again, his eyes drifting toward the door, and through it, the mountain. "I suppose not."_

_"You suppose not," Thranduil scoffed, his voice sharpening. "This siege is about our people's security, Legolas. I cannot let the dwarves' ill actions go unchecked, nor will I allow them the satisfaction of wrongfully holding onto our people's heirlooms."_

_By now, Legolas knew better than to say anything else. He watched with guarded eyes as his father, his king, gracefully returned to his carven chair and picked up his wine again._

_"We defend our own." Thranduil said simply, his voice as clear and final as the sword that Legolas knew to be death in his father's hands. The Elvenking leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs._

* * *

November, 3018:

The moon hung low and tarnished over Dale as the city slept, and Thranduil watched quietly. Even as King Brand retired for much needed rest and the dwarf Dwalin nodded off still holding his ax, Thranduil had slipped away and climbed the stairs of the citadel's watch tower, where he could watch his two guards lie in wait for the intruder to cross into the city. Eventually, two more of his guards had joined him, waiting wordlessly on the steps below; they were replacements sent by Elfir.

Finally, a quick movement by the southern wall caught his eye; a dark-clothed man expertly scaled over the side of the wall, a rope had clearly been left for him, proof enough that Maubûrz clearly had someone helping him from inside the city. Thranduil watched Elfir and Dorwil move into action, stealthily sliding down the side of the roof where they had been waiting. Bard followed, and Thorin skidded after them. Thranduil stifled a groan at the dwarf's clumsy attempts to follow his guards; he was going to slow them down! The intruder dropped down to the city streets below, and Thranduil briefly lost sight of him. The houses' rooftops obscured his view of the street, but he remained confident that Elfir and Dorwil still held him in their sights.

His guards were moving very quickly now, sliding down rooftops, springing from one eave to another, while Bard and Thorin scrambled to keep up. They neither stopped nor paused, and Thranduil leaned on the ledge, intently trying to catch a glimpse of the marauder as he moved closer to the citadel and the King's halls. Thranduil rather thought he might head toward the apothecary's shop, but he knew from experience that Wychelm's herbal shop was on the lower guild's streets, past Stone Street.

Eyebrows furrowed, Thranduil watched as Elfir made an impressive leap, his furthest yet to the nearest house's steep pitched roof. Dorwil then sailed past him. The elf paused this time and waited for Bard to make the jump, reaching his hand out to steady the young man as he landed. Thranduil's mouth tightened into a straight line as Dorwil clearly waited for Thorin to make the jump.

Here, things seemed to fall apart. Thorin waved the elven guard away, clearly not trusting his help, or as Thranduil darkly thought, he was too proud to accept any sort of elven assistance. The dwarf ran full tilt toward making the leap, but could not close the distance. Thorin's arms and hands stretched out to catch the edge of the roof, and just barely managed to grab it and hang on with his fingertips.

Thranduil scowled as Dorwil and Bard hauled Thorin up, and Elfir pointed down toward the streets. The hunt continued, but the elven guards' pace slowed greatly and moved with less surety. The Elvenking let out a frustrated sigh. He was almost certain that the dwarf's clumsy delay had let the intruder escape.

He continued to watch as the search party fanned out, seemingly trying to find any sign of the dark-clothed man. They were very close to the citadel and the main hall now, and Thranduil had to wonder at the intruder's purpose. What could Mauburz possibly want at the citadel, where there were sure to be many more guards?

His eyes scanned the streets once more, and a brief flicker of movement caught his eye—a shadow disappearing into the darkness of the citadel steps' ascent to the main courtyard.

"Alassien, Melui!" Thranduil called to his guards on the steps. "Alert King Brand's guards and find Elfir and Dorwil. I fear that the intruder has entered the King's Halls."

"Yes, your highness! At once!" called Melui, and the king heard the soft touch of their steps as they flew down the tower.

The king followed them, his hand drifting toward the hilt of his sword on his belt. Perhaps, Maubûrz meant to rescue his spies or intended to reclaim his lost poison from the dungeons. Thranduil smiled to himself as he moved through the darkness of the halls; he would dearly love to capture the wretch himself.

* * *

Narylfiel shifted uneasily on the settee by the fire. She had gotten up hours ago after Thranduil left; the bed seemed just too lonely, too big, and too cold without him. Instead she settled for the squashy little love seat by the fire and had pulled a heavy wool blanket over the top of her. It was a poor substitute for her Elvenking indeed.

A floorboard creaked outside in the hallway, and Narylfiel sat up a little, listening, hoping it might be Thranduil returning to check on her. She decided to sink lower down in her seat and pull the blanket higher up over her, thinking she might feign sleep when he entered.

Sure enough, the door to her room opened in a sliver of light from the low lit hallway. Narylfiel grinned a little and schooled herself into a sleepy pose, one where she could still watch the door from the corner of her eye.

Her playful mood vanished, however, with a curious noise—a soft metallic snick—the unmistakable sound of an arrow being fitted against a bowstring and drawn. Narylfiel stilled, her eyes fixed on the crack of light from the hall. An arrow streaked through the empty door and buried itself in the lump of pillows that Narylfiel had left on the bed. She gasped before she could stop herself, and then flattened herself on the settee, pulling the heavy blanket up over her.

The floorboards creaked again, and she knew the person entered her room. For all of his stealth, her would-be attacker was no elf. She could hear his heavy breathing and the weight of his footsteps against the wooden floor. His feet traveled across the length of her room and stopped where Narylfiel guessed would be her bed; she heard the rustle of her bedspread and sheets and then a low oath muttered, when her attacker realized she was not in bed, dying from his arrow. Narylfiel willed herself to be calm and tried to remember exactly where her weapons were. She was confident if she could reach her knives then she could hold her own against him. She had to reach her weapons though, and she was almost certain that she had left them on the end table by the doorway. If she did not reach them quickly enough, this intruder could easily shoot her or slit her throat, assuming he had brought alternative weapons with him. Narylfiel figured it was a safe bet that he had.

The floorboards creaked again; the man was on the move, and Narylfiel listened with growing horror as his footsteps sounded closer and closer to the fireplace, closer to her hiding place. She stayed perfectly still, slowing her breathing so the blanket would not move and give her away.

His weight shifted on the boards with a slight groan, and Narylfiel listened intently, until she heard another soft snick, the quiet scrape of an arrow being drawn from a quiver and the thrum of a bow being drawn.

She could not stall any longer. She sprang from her couch, simultaneously flinging the heavy blanket in her attacker's direction, and sprinted toward the table with her knives. Her attacker, a tall, swarthy man threw off the blanket but dropped his bow in the process. It hardly mattered now. Narylfiel only looked back long enough to see him leap toward her, his meaty hand coming down quickly toward her upper arm. She rolled away to evade his reach but he seized her by the shoulder and yanked her backwards.

Narylfiel lost her footing, stumbled and crashed into a side table, knocking the water pitcher left by the maids onto the hard wood floor. The pitcher exploded into a dozen sharp little pieces, and water splattered across the room. It provided only a second's distraction as the man flinched, but Narylfiel used the opportunity to scramble for anything she could use as a weapon. Her hands lit upon a thick metal candlestick, and gripping it, she flung the heavy base toward her assailant's head.

He dodged it and lunged at her, grabbing her hard by the shoulders, wrenching her across the broken shards of pottery and slamming her into the wall. With one long arm he kept her pinned there. His dark eyes narrowed in the shadows, watching her, sizing her up as he drew a long thin knife from the scabbard on his belt.

Head throbbing, Narylfiel uttered a low curse at him as he showed her the blade, hoping to see the fear in her eyes. He would get no such satisfaction from her. She dropped her weight, sinking down to the floor out of his grasp before he could strike. Narylfiel pushed off with both feet and sprung toward the nearest piece of furniture she could see, a small bench at the foot of her bed. She grabbed it with both hands and chunked the bench at the man. The corner of it struck him on the shoulder, but he did not slow down and he did not stop.

Fortunately, the floor was wet, made slick from the spilled water. Narylfiel's attacker slipped on the puddle, and both feet flew out from under him. His head made a horrible splintering sound as it struck the footboard of the bed as he went down.

Narylfiel limped toward him. Her feet felt raw, like she had ran barefoot over all the pinecones in the forest. Breathing hard, she dropped to her knees beside him, and her hands closed around the fallen candlestick, the very one she had chunked at him earlier.

His eyes fluttered open briefly. "You will die," he rasped thickly. "You will…"

Narylfiel brought the candlestick down, hard across his forehead. "Not yet," she corrected weakly and gingerly sat back. Her hands were a mess; Thranduil was going to have a fit when he saw them. She carefully got to her feet and staggered toward the door. Where was Elfir and Dorwil when you needed them?

There was some sort of commotion out in the hallway and running footsteps thundered past her door. Narylfiel unsteadily reached for one of her knives from her weapons on the table by the entryway. She fumbled with the door handle and peered outside.

Of all the people that could be at the end of the hall, it just had to be that insufferable dwarf, Prince Thorin. He waved her away. "Go back in your room, miss!" he shouted at her. "There's dangerous folk on the loose!"

Knife in hand, she stumbled into the dim light of the hall. "I think I found one of them." She pressed her free hand to the back of her head where she had hit the wall. Her head throbbed. The hallway seemed to stretch and curl as Thorin ran toward her. "I think…"

He caught hold of her before she hit the ground.

"I must have hit my head harder than I thought," Narylfiel mumbled as Thorin helped her back inside her room.

"I thought you were joking when you first stepped into the hallway," Thorin said, "until I saw the blood on your, uh, nightdress." His head turned to take in all the damage in the room, his eyebrows going up at the sight of the pitcher smashed on the floor, and the broken bench lying haphazard against the hearth, and then the hulking body of her attacker prostrate next to the rug.

"Here," he said gruffly, guiding her to the bed to sit down, looking generally worried that she might faint. His brows pushed together at the sight of the arrow impaling her pillow and mattress. His eyes shifted to her.

"Rough night," she said and shrugged.

"I'll just…" He pulled the arrow loose and a flock of feathers flew out with it. "I'm going to find the others. Wait here." He moved over to study the unconscious man. Thorin picked up the intruder's feet, and with a grunt, dragged the body out through the door into the hallway.

Thorin popped his head back through the doorway. "Lock this behind me."

Narylfiel nodded, her lips curving up. She had detested him at dinner; he had been just horrid. "You surprise me," she told him. "A dwarf helping an elf. Thank you."

"I try not to think about the elf bit," he answered frankly and winked. "Just that a pretty maiden in her nighty needed my help." With that, he pulled the door shut, and Narylfiel got up, winced, and locked the door.

In what seemed like only minutes later, Narylfiel heard a crowd of voices outside her door, Thranduil's booming voice not the least of them.

"Why would you have just left him outside her door," she heard Thranduil shout, "so he could finish the job?"

Narylfiel pulled on her robe and limped to her door to open it. She had already wrapped her hands and feet in some cloth strips she had torn from the hem of her bedsheets. Housekeeping was going to hate her, she decided, as she surveyed the destruction—bedsheets torn, pillow mauled and bleeding feathers, bench broken, pitcher smashed—officially making her the worst houseguest ever.

Nobody even noticed her sudden appearance. Narylfiel noted with a shudder that the unconscious body of the intruder had vanished. Thranduil, Thorin, Brand, Bard, Dwalin, Elfir, Dorwil—they were all talking at once, and no one was listening to anybody.

Thranduil. "Not only do you completely ruin my guards' effort to follow the intruder in the city, then you let him get away! You. Let. Him. Escape. One might think you were in league…"

Brand. "Thranduil, my deepest apologies for this happening. I assure you my staff will not rest until we find this man and bring him to justice."

Dwalin. "Attacking a young woman while she sleeps. Hmmph, no honor."

Thorin. "I refuse to stand here and be insulted by a pointy-ear elf king who doesn't even protect his own lady. I helped her, and this is the thanks I get?"

Elfir. "We were this close to catching Maubûrz, and for him to slip away now…"

Narylfiel. "It wasn't Maubûrz." She spoke up, and all their heads swiveled toward her. She self-consciously folded her arms across her chest. "The man who attacked me was not Maubûrz, but he did have an Eastern accent."

Thorin spoke up. "I searched him, just to make sure he did not have any hidden weapons before I left him alone. I found this—" and in one hand he held up a familiar looking little glass stoppered bottle holding the remains of a dark liquid and in his other hand, a folded piece of parchment, which he straightened out and showed to the crowd.

_Maubûrz sends his regards._

Thranduil's eyes immediately went to Narylfiel, and his mouth tightened into an angry line.

"I can only guess this Maubûrz told him to leave it on the body of this young lady," Thorin concluded, and to his credit, the dwarf did not smirk when he noticed the Elvenking pale.

Elfir then asked Thorin if he could examine the bottle and did so, holding it up for the others to see. "This bottle is the same make as the others we found. See the 'W' imprint on the glass?"

"Someone has betrayed you, King Brand. Someone works against you in your city, in these halls," Thanduil intoned, "and I intend to find out who." He briefly looked at Narylfiel again in a way that made her heart stutter, to read the worry and sorrow there.

"Spread out and catch this man. He cannot have gone very far," the Elvenking ordered his guards. "I will return within the hour." His eyes met Narylfiel's one more time, and again his unspoken worry for her was almost a tangible thing, one that she wished she could smooth away and make him forget.

"I will have my healer look after Lady Narylfiel's injuries, your highness!" King Brand loudly assured the Elvenking even as the elf stormed down the hall. "Go with him," he told his son. Bard had to sprint before he could catch up with King Thranduil.

"Where are we going?" Bard asked as he trailed after the Elvenking and into the inky night.

" _I_ am going to visit the apothecary. We have let ourselves be played for fools!" Thranduil hissed. "The intruder coming over the walls—Maubûrz knew we would be watching for him!—the attack on Narylfiel—it was all a diversion, for Maubûrz to conceal his true purpose."

"Pardon?" Bard asked as he jogged to keep up with the elf's long strides through the dark, empty streets. "Why the apothecary?"

"The little glass bottles holding the poison that the guards found in Maubûrz's camp," Thranduil explained. "I did not realize it at the time, but I had seen their make before—at the apothecary's shop when I first tried to get medicine for Narylfiel. Maubûrz needs more poison for his buyer. He will return to that shop."

"You think the apothecary, old Wychelm, made that poison? He's just a harmless old duffer!" Bard argued back.

Thranduil slowed to a stop. They had reached Stone Street, past the old market, where the herbalist kept shop. The elf's hand reached for his sword and drew it out soundlessly. "Shh," he whispered to Bard. "Look. The door is open."

Both man and elf crept toward the shop, taking care to avoid being seen from its storefront window. Thranduil motioned to Bard that he would enter first. The elf slid through the door silently as a shadow, his blade gleaming in his hand.

As soon as he stepped inside, Thranduil knew they were too late. Even in the dark, he could tell that someone had ransacked the shop. The shelving hung loosely from the walls, bottles and loose bits of parchment littered the floors, and a sharp metallic tang mixed with the room's usually acrid herbal stench.

Thranduil did not have to look far to find the source of the smell. The apothecary's body lay twisted on the floor, framed by an arc of his own blood, his throat hung open. His fingers still clutched his tasseled cap.

The Elvenking stared at the scene as Prince Bard came up behind him.

"Oh! Poor Wychelm!" the young man exclaimed, bringing a hand to his mouth as if the scene made him ill. "His son will be devastated."

"His son?" Thranduil repeated, locking eyes with the man.

"Yes, poor fellow. He works for my father—well, he's my father's healer," Bard said sadly shaking his head. "You don't think he…"

Bard turned to ask Thranduil a question, but Thranduil hardly heard him. He was already out the door of the shop, racing back toward the citadel.

Narylfiel was still in danger, and Thranduil would never forgive himself if he let anything happen to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my! Things are getting dicey!
> 
> Thorin: #ElfShame #NoGratitude
> 
> Thranduil: #DwarfShame #FAIL
> 
> Please Comment, Subscribe, and Leave Kudos.


	21. Vulnerable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to LokiLover123 and Onebatch_twobatch! Thanks guys for leaving sweet comments on the last chapter!

_November, 2941:_

_The Elvenking would never trudge down a hallway…but Thranduil felt like it. The Battle of Five Armies had been a disaster. Sure, the goblins had been defeated, and the forces of darkness pushed back, but the cost in elven blood had been too high. He should never have left the protection of his forest realm._

_All Thranduil really wanted was to slink into his room, open a bottle of wine, put his feet up, and then stay there for maybe a year or so. Of course, he could not do any of those things, even if he was the king—especially because he was the king. For that reason, he made himself stand on the steps, in silent vigil as his entire army filed past on their way to the armory. He made himself take the time to sit in unending discomfort upon his throne as he heard casualty reports from all his captains. Then he made himself stay there even longer to listen to his elder advisors as they recommended provisions for the families suffering losses from the battle. Thranduil agreed to all of their requests without hesitation; half of his advisors did not know what to make of it. He rarely granted their requests so easily._

_Finally, he allowed himself to retire to his chambers; the Elvenking was sure his son had gone to Thaliniel straight away, and the halls of the royal suites were deserted, quiet. He had dismissed Galion, not feeling the slightest desire for coddling from his butler; he neither wanted company, nor deserved it._

_He had halfway expected Narylfiel to greet him, but she was nowhere in sight. Then Thranduil recalled their parting before the battle and could honestly not blame her. She had come to him, worried and upset, and he had let her leave without reassuring her or even saying farewell. Of course he had seen her at the gates as the army had been leaving, but she had been more interested in saying goodbye to Brethil, his great elk._

_Thranduil stopped short at the thought of the elk and turned, his eyes drifting toward Narylfiel's chambers toward the hallway's entrance. Narylfiel had loved Brethil, had doted on him; she was always sneaking him apples from the cellar. She had practically raised him from a fawn. The elf's heart twisted painfully at the thought of having to tell her about Brethil falling in battle, pierced by many arrows. Thranduil found his feet moving toward her door, dreading what he had to tell her, dreading that horrible moment of realization when her eyes were sure to fill with tears._

_He raised his hand and half-heartedly knocked on the door. The door swung open, and one very surprised chambermaid quickly bowed her head._

" _Your highness," she said, clearly flustered by his unexpected appearance._

" _Tell Lady Narylfiel that I desire to see her," he said evenly._

" _Lady Narylfiel went down to the stables, your majesty," she told him politely, tacking a curtsy on at the end._

" _Your majesty?" she called after him, for the king had left without a word, had hurried away as soon as she mentioned the stables._

_Thranduil threw the doors open to the royal stables, ignoring the surprised looks from the stable hands. "Leave us." He issued the command quietly. His eyes were fixed on the sad little silhouette at the end of the stables, slumped over the end stall, her shoulders shaking._

_He approached her soundlessly and then hesitantly laid a hand on her shoulder. "Narylfiel."_

_She straightened immediately and flung her arms around him._

_He flinched at the contact. Thranduil did not often find himself on the receiving end of teary embraces, but this was his little naurenniel. His arms eased around her, and he held her._

" _I am sorry," he murmured. "There will be other Great Elks…"_

" _I do not want another Great Elk," she sobbed into his shoulder. "I just want Brethil."_

" _Come," he told her. "The horses will be wanting their dinner, and I've chased all the stable hands away." He guided her out from the stables to his study, stopping along the way to ask one of his guards to locate Galion, so he might bring up some tea._

_Once he settled Narylfiel into her usual chair across from his, he handed her another handkerchief and waited for the tea to arrive._

" _I am glad you are well," she told him in between sniffles. "And I know that it's silly of me to be so upset, especially when there are many families who lost loved ones, but…"_

" _No," he soothed her. "Brethil was special. I understand." He thought for a minute about how much he wanted to tell her. 'The battle did not go…as planned."_

" _What do you mean?" She looked up from her handkerchief._

" _We did not fight the dwarves of Erebor," he said slowly. "We were surprised by an onslaught of goblins and orcs. We ended up fighting alongside the men of Laketown and the dwarves to defeat the goblins and wargs."_

_She straightened in her chair, her teary eyes wide. "And Brethil was…" her voice trailed away._

"… _shot down by orcs as I rode over the causeway into Dale," he admitted quietly._

" _It could just had easily been you," she realized aloud. "Thranduil, you could have been killed! Are you injured? Hurt?"_

" _Nothing worth your concern," he said._

_Frowning, she shook her head. "You are always worthy of my concern," she told him firmly. "Have you even rested? Eaten anything?"_

_Thranduil looked away. "There were more important things to attend to," he answered. And attending to those more important things offered him a reprieve; for a few minutes or however long, he did not have to think of the battle, or of how many of his warriors' bodies lined the streets of Dale or lay ruined amid the slain and fallen._

" _Thranduil?" Narylfiel touched his hand and then withdrew, gestured toward the door. "I can fetch Galion for you, if you wish."_

_He silently shook his head 'no,' and then rubbed his temples, as if the weight of the circlet he wore pained him. For a moment he said nothing, merely pinched the bridge of his nose and then exhaled slowly._

_He stopped her. "I would rather be alone."_

" _I understand," she said, concern edging her voice. Her king looked after so many, felt the weight of so many, and shouldered that weight alone. He leaned his head back in his chair and closed his eyes, effectively dismissing her._

_Stung, she slipped out the door and headed down the hall to her room._

" _Oh, Lady Narylfiel!" Celwen, her sometimes attendant, greeted her at her door. "The king was looking for you."_

" _Thank you, Celwen," Narylfiel said. "He found me." She briefly considered falling face first onto her bed and not moving for the rest of the night._

" _I am certainly glad that the king spared you from having to go to that horrible battle, my lady." Celwen said, blithely building the fire for her lady. "The stories I have heard so far have all been dreadful."_

_Narylfiel's eyes drifted to her door. Thranduil came to find her to comfort her about Brethil. "Dreadful?" she heard herself ask._

" _Many of our kin could not be recovered from the battle site," Celwen said shuddering. "Their bodies had been trampled, rent and ruin. Orcs do not fight with honor." She picked up the flint box from the mantle._

" _No…they do not," Narylfiel agreed slowly. She thought of Thranduil alone in his study, brooding. "Do not light the fire, Celwen. I may not return for some time."_

_After she had loaded up a tray from the kitchens, Narylfiel peeked in through the door to her king's office. He was still where she left him, only now he sat hunched over, his head in his hands._

" _Galion, I said that—" Thranduil snapped._

_Narylfiel cut him off. "I brought you some food." She pulled the door shut behind her and plopped down the tray on the ottoman across from the king._

_He sat up, smoothed the hair away from his face, and eyed her regally. "I thought I told you I would rather be alone?" he asked archly._

_She spread a heavy layer of butter onto a warm bun and arranged it on a plate with a side of meat and handed it to him._

_He took it from her, looked at it, looked at her. "Narylfiel," he said._

" _Thranduil." She sat down beside him._

" _I meant what I said," he told her softly._

" _I know you did, only—" she met his gaze and held it. "I thought I might feel better if I was with a friend?"_

_He looked suspiciously at the plate in his lap and then her entreating warm brown eyes. His mouth twitched._

" _Well," he said slowly, picking up the piece of bread and taking a small bite. It surprisingly did not taste like sawdust in his mouth as all his other meals had since the battle. "If it would cheer you up, I suppose you might stay with me."_

" _Your majesty is too kind," she said. Narylfiel stayed with him until he had eaten his plateful of food, and after that when he stared wordlessly into the fire for a long time, she did not press him to talk, nor did he discuss any details from the battle. She was with him, and it was enough.  
_

* * *

November, 3018:

Narylfiel had protested limping down the hallway to visit the king's healer, but after both Melui's and Elfir's insistence, she had succumbed. Melui accompanied her, also at Elfir's insistence. Oh, she knew he had her best interests at heart, but all Narylfiel really wanted was to sink into her bed and sleep off the dull throb at the base of her head. Then she remembered the sad state of her bedchamber and groaned. It was hardly hospitable in its current state, and she said as much to Melui.

"Perhaps the king will allow you to return to the town house with the rest of the guards," Melui suggested.

"Perhaps," Narylfiel echoed, not bothering to correct her friend. She highly doubted that Thranduil would go for that idea.

They arrived in the darkened healing rooms just as a fairly young man rushed in, his youthful face drawn and worried.

Narylfiel reached out and tapped him on the shoulder. "I am sorry they woke you up over such a small matter."

The young man turned, his face a study of astonishment, as his hands frantically lit a few candles and then grabbed at bandages and various ointments. "Woke me up? Whatever gave you that idea?"

Narylfiel and Melui exchanged a glance. "Your, um, nightcap?" she said, pointing a small finger to her head.

His eyes rolled up as if he expected to see the silly looking hat on his head, just as one hand snatched the offending garment away and stuffed it in his pocket. "Oh, dear!" he exclaimed. "Sorry about that. Now, which of you is the injured party?"

Narylfiel stepped forward. "I am." Just what sort of practicing healer was this young man? Did he seriously not notice all the scrapes, blood, and her general disarray?

Now he looked her over. "Oh, of course! Silly of me," he said, shaking his head. He tapped his finger to his forehead. "I'm still not quite woken up." He gestured to a small cot. "Would you like to have a seat?"

Narylfiel exchanged another glance with Melui and sat down.

"Your friend need not stay," he told her with a smile, and then addressed Melui. "If you have things you need to attend to, the lady is completely safe within my care."

"I'm staying," Melui said in a tone that brooked no arguments.

"Very well then," he said cheerfully. "I heard you were in quite a fight." He continued on as he checked the scrapes on her hands, examined the knot on the back of her head, carefully cleaned the cuts on her feet.

"I was attacked," Narylfiel corrected him.

"Even so," the young healer deftly cut some bandages into strips. "It's scary, is what it is. If an Elven princess like you isn't safe in the king's house, who is?" He shook his head and tsked. "There is no security these days, no more safe places."

He stood up from his little stool by her cot and walked over to his worktable where he picked up a glass-stoppered bottle. The young healer twisted off the stopper and poured some of the dark ointment onto a clean rag.

When he turned to return to his patient, the young man found his way blocked by a long elven sword wielded by a wild-eyed blonde elf. King Thranduil stood between him and Narylfiel, and he looked positively murderous.

"Set that rag down at once." The Elvenking ordered him.

"King Thranduil!" Narylfiel exclaimed. "He is only trying to help."

"Is he?" Thranduil asked, and the fierce glint in his eyes had the young man backing away, setting down the rag, and even going so far as to put the bottle away completely.

"My king's men asked me to help her," he squeaked. "I would not hurt her. I hardly even touched her—just ask your guard! She's been here the entire time. I mean no harm. Honestly!"

"King Thranduil," Narylfiel tried again. "Please, lower your sword. He has been nothing but kind."

The Elvenking's eyes softened as they met hers, but he did not move. Instead, he pointed the sword a little higher at the man's throat. "Where have you been tonight?" Thranduil said and stepped closer.

The healer had turned an unhealthy shade of white and looked as if he might faint when Prince Bard ran into the room, his chest heaving. His eyes went to the Elvenking with his sword drawn and then to the pale, trembling man.

"Wilem, something has happened," said Bard, drawing a chair from the corner of the room for the young man to sit down. Thranduil lowered his sword but did not sheath it.

When the young man sat down, Bard delivered his news. "Wilem, King Thranduil and I found your father…he was murdered in his shop."

Wilem's eyes widened at the news and then he flung himself over in his chair with a sob, his shoulders shaking, his hands covering his face.

Bard crouched down beside him, laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Wilem, is there anything you can tell us about your father's death? King Thranduil believes he was selling poison to an Eastern buyer."

Wilem glanced fearfully at Thranduil and the gleaming sword still resting threateningly in the elf's hand.

"I can't," he said and squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head. "He…he was my father."

Bard waited a beat and made eye contact with the Elvenking.

Thranduil gave him the briefest of nods and then sheathed his sword. "Your father's throat was slit, his shop, looted. The killer was looking for something."

"Any information you give us could help us find his killer, Wilem," Bard said softly. "Help us bring him to justice."

Wilem nodded and dabbed at his eyes with a bit of bandage. "I knew he was into something—something bad."

"When did you start to suspect this?" Bard asked disarmingly, but the skin around his warm brown eyes crinkled around the edges.

"Last summer. I wasn't in the shop much, but I one day I stopped by to pick up some herbs for the king's storeroom, and I saw it."

"What did you see?" Thranduil's voice was deceptively casual.

"A book—one I'd never seen before. It was heavy, leather bound one, the pages—" he faltered.

"I have been in your father's shop. He has shelves of dusty old books in there. Why this book? Why did it worry you?" Bard asked.

Wilem dabbed at his red-tinged eyes again. "My father would not tell me who brought it in, only that he thought it would make him a fortune…It had potions in it, you see? Medicines, forgotten healing lore, mythical sorts of things, and…dark crafts."

Over the top of Wilem's head, Bard and Thranduil looked at each other worriedly. "The person who brought him the book, he wanted your father to make a certain recipe?"

Wilem nodded and looked away, twisting the damp bunch of cloth in his hands.

Thranduil leaned forward, his long golden hair framing his face. "Why? If the client owned the book, why would he need your father to make any of the recipes?"

"I think maybe the owner of the book had tried and failed. Maybe he did not know how to harvest the right ingredients." Wilem glanced over at Narylfiel and Melui and then hung his head.

"What was he trying to make, Wilem?" Narylfiel asked softly, recalling the dark, spidery wound to her side, the poison, and Thranduil's healing. She thought she already knew the answer, but she had to hear him say it.

Wilem wrung the cloth once more in his hands, and then broke with a sob, his words spilling out in a rush. "The buyer wanted a poison, one strong enough to drain the life of the Eldar—to make them mortal."

From across the room, Narylfiel locked eyes with Thranduil. Poison. Mortal. Then she swallowed hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please Comment, Leave Kudos, and Subscribe/Bookmark! Let me know your thoughts on this new little plot twist! ;)
> 
> Thranduil: #SharpeningSword #HumanShishKabob
> 
> Narylfiel: #CrappyNight


	22. Panicked

_Four hundred years ago..._

_Narylfiel panicked. The hall was dark and wide, too wide! She hurtled out of her room and swept her eyes down the low-lit corridor. It was the middle of the night, and the royal wing was empty. Not even Thranduil's guards were anywhere to be found. Narylfiel choked back a sob as she remembered her dream, where a pleasant walk through the forest had branched off into to a dark path, lined with winding dark vines and cobwebs. She shuddered as she recalled the scritching sound the spiders had been made, at least she was pretty sure it had been spiders, coming down from the trees, grabbing toward her with their spiny pinchers._

_What she really wanted was to go to big sister and get in bed with her. At home in the vineyard whenever Narylfiel had bad dreams, she used to go to Thaliniel for comfort. Her older sister would cuddle her up, make her feel safe._

_Narylfiel frowned and took a few tentative steps toward her sister's room. She stopped and sighed. Thaliniel had only been married a few weeks now. And as much as she was sure Legolas liked her… Well, she did not want to bother them. She had better just return to her room. She hugged her stuffed rabbit to her chest. Maybe if she lit the lamps and got her favorite story out, then she would feel better._

_She turned to hurry back to her room and abruptly collided with tall figure coming around the corner. Narylfiel stumbled and landed hard on her bottom._

" _Oh, Narylfiel!" A kind voice exclaimed and a hand reached down to help her up. Narylfiel pushed her hair away from her eyes and saw Legolas looking concernedly down at her. She took his hand, and he pulled her up, patted her head._

" _What are you doing up so late?" he asked, glancing down the hall to her room._

_Narylfiel smoothed her rabbit's ears down. "Bun was scared," she said, gesturing to her rabbit. "He had a horrible dream about twisty vines and spiders."_

_Legolas fought down a grin. She was just so sweet looking standing there with her long hair and little ruffled nightdress. Instead, he nodded seriously and knelt down beside her. "Did you go knock on our door?"_

_She looked down at the floor, shook her head 'no.'_

" _Come on," he said, and without warning, he scooped her and Bun into his arms and started to walk down the hall. Much to Narylfiel's surprise, he passed by her room and continued on to his, opening the door and bringing her inside with him._

_Thaliniel was asleep in their bed, but Legolas brought Narylfiel over to a stuffed chair by the fire and sat down with her in his lap. He settled a blanket around the young elleth's shoulders and told her, "My father used to do this for me when I had bad dreams."_

" _You had bad dreams?" Narylfiel asked, finally feeling better now that she was cocooned in his arms with her sister so near._

" _I did," Legolas admitted, a little sheepishly. "I used to crawl in bed with my father."_

" _What about your mother?" Narylfiel asked._

_Legolas gently brushed the hair away from her eyes, tucked the blanket close around her. "Oh, she was not around very much, but I always knew I could count on my father to make me feel safe. I thought he was the fiercest warrior in the forest."_

_Narylfiel blinked owlishly up at him. "He really is, isn't he?" Admiration rang through her voice._

" _Yes, he really is," Legolas agreed, the corners of his mouth curving up._

_Narylfiel leaned her head against his chest. "You're not so bad yourself," she told him with all the conviction of the very young._

_The next morning Thaliniel found the pair of them still there snuggled together in the chair, fast asleep, her husband's arms protectively cradling her little sister. She smiled to herself and let them rest._

* * *

November, 3018:

The room constricted all around him, as if all the air had been sucked out in one violent exhale, and Thranduil's heart pounded in his ears.

Poison. Mortal. A poison that drains the life of the Eldar.

And in his mind, he saw Narylfiel, her eyes dull, dim. Fading. Dying.

He could not breathe. He needed some air, needed to get away from the cloying smells of herbs and poultices in this horrid little room. His stomach twisted, and he was vaguely aware of Bard calling his name behind him as the abruptly left the healing chambers, letting the door slam behind him. He rushed past the guards at the end of the hall and down the stairwell, to where he had seen a side door. It was guarded now, of course, but he brushed past the liveried youths and then finally, gasping, burst into the cold night air, letting it burn his lungs, his eyes.

The snow still fell, and the Elvenking placed a hand on the icy side of the stone wall to steady himself. His cheeks flushed at thought of how he had just fled the healer's room, and Thranduil tried to gather his thoughts—but there was only one thing he could think of. He could only think of her. Thranduil exhaled slowly and wondered. Was this some sort of debt demanded in full by the Valar, and for what? His pride, his resentment…his anger. Was he not meant to love or to be loved? He glared at the few pinpricks of light managing to shine through the low flying clouds and willed the unwelcome thought not to be true.

When Thranduil returned to the healing ward, Melui sat across from Narylfiel, carefully applying a light bandage to her feet while Bard silently stood watch over Wilem.

Their eyes all flicked expectantly to him upon his return.

Thranduil did not offer any explanations. He rarely did. Kings did _not_ explain themselves. Instead, he swiftly crossed the room to Wilem and hoisted him up by his shirt front. The pale young man squeaked and looked pleadingly to Bard.

"How dare you?" accused the Elvenking, his eyes flashing.

Bard reacted immediately, stepping forward, his hand reaching to pull Thranduil's arm away.

Thranduil shrugged him off with a hiss. His eyes narrowed as he set Wilem down, but kept him at arm's length.

"You knowingly let your father make a poison to target my people—kill my people—and you did nothing," the Elvenking said scathingly.

"He was my father," Wilem sobbed. "I knew it was wrong…but he was my father."

"Look at her," Thranduil commanded, giving Wilem a rough shake. "Lady Narylfiel was struck by a poison blade, poison your father made!"

Wilem stared at Narylfiel, his mouth forming a fleshy 'o' until at last she looked away.

"How…how long ago?" Wilem asked her.

"A few days," Narylfiel said. Her voice sounded small and weak to Thranduil's ears.

"Amazing," the healer said, awe creeping into his voice.

Thranduil gave him a dirty look. "It's not amazing," he said flatly. "She nearly died."

Wilem held up his hands. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry," he exclaimed. "It's just that I'm amazed that she still looks so healthy, so lively even. She's not wasting away?"

"Clearly," Thranduil said with a scowl and crossed his arms. "What do you know of its effects?"

"Not very much," the man replied, his eyes darting to Narylfiel again and then to Bard. Wilem frowned up at the Elvenking. "I can't be very forthcoming if I'm being threatened, my lord."

Thranduil's eyes glittered. "By all means, please," he said, his deep voice melodic and rich, "be forthcoming." He stepped back, allowing for a small amount of space between them. "I am listening."

Wilem stuffed his hands in his pockets, clearly not used to the way or manner of elves. It was one thing to have read about them in books or heard stories, but it was another thing entirely to have the Elvenking of legend staring down at you. Wilem's voice cracked as he spoke up: "It was my understanding that the poison was meant to sap the strength and long life of the elves—basically making them as men."

Thranduil swallowed down the bitterness rising in his throat. "And why should I not ask King Brand for your execution right now?"

"Because I am innocent!" Wilem said desperately, "and because I can help save her!" He jerked his head toward Narylfiel.

"Listen," Wilem continued, his narrow face flushed. "I knew my father did not have much success with his first batch. His buyer tested its potency on the dwarves first. They brought one of the injured into the palace here, to try and save him—I recognized the poison from the wound—it was confirmation of my worst fears."

"Did you save him?" Narylfiel asked quietly.

Wilem grimaced. "Yes, but at great cost."

Bard replied stonily, "You removed his arm below the elbow, Wilem. And still you said nothing?"

Wilem held up his hands defensively. "Look, I know it was a mistake, but ever since then I've been working on a cure, an antidote."

Bard and Thranduil exchanged glances. "Go on," Bard prodded.

"I just need more time, more supplies…" his eyes drifted to Narylfiel, "and perhaps a better understanding of elven healing—if she has resisted the poison so far, studying how you healed her could be the key to stopping it."

"I used blood grass to heal Lady Narylfiel," Thranduil told him.

The man's eyes widened in surprise, as if he could not believe that the Elvenking had succeeded where he had not. "Everything I have tried so far has been largely unsuccessful," Wilem admitted. "Blood grass showed some effectiveness, but only partially, a temporary fix. "Is she still taking the blood grass?"

Narylfiel shook her head.

"What kind of supplies?" Prince Bard kept his voice casual, but his eyes kept going to Narylfiel.

Wilem shuffled his feet and glanced at the medicine cabinet behind him. "I am not really sure. I've tried so many things already. If I had that book, the original recipe—then I could see all the ingredients and I might have more luck."

"Do you know where this book is?" Bard asked. "Your father's shop was ransacked. It may not even be there any more."

"My father had a hiding place in his shop, behind one of the shelves. I know where to look," Wilem said and winced. "I loved my father, but I regret that he allowed himself to be caught up in this. I do want to help," he added earnestly.

Bard placed his hand on Wilem's shoulder and looked to Thranduil. "The king will want to hear of this. I will take Wilem to find the book, and then I will bring him to my father."

Thranduil nodded, his eyes cool. He watched Bard and Wilem leave, and Elfir brushed past them in the doorway on his way to find his king.

Elfir's face was grim as he surveyed the room. The Royal guard still felt guilty about not having been there to protect Narylfiel in the first place, and his news for the king only made him feel worse. "King Thranduil, we found Narylfiel's attacker," Elfir announced.

"Good. Take him to King Brand's men for questioning," Thranduil replied, eyes gleaming.

"He's dead, your Majesty. Throat slashed," Elfir said. "We found his body slumped in a back alley, not two block from the citadel."

Throat slashed. Thranduil recalled Wilem's father, lying prone on the dusty floor of his shop. His throat had been slashed too, a clean vicious arc. Maubûrz had been busy.

Thranduil's mind was made up. "Tell the guards to ready our horses, Elfir. We leave at dawn. Melui, if you'll go back to the townhouse and inform the others?"

"Yes, your highness," Melui answered, giving Narylfiel a light hug before leaving.

The king stopped the guard on her way out the door. "Please, be careful, Melui," he cautioned her. Both remembered Wilem's words about the poison, one that Maubûrz possibly had in his position at that very moment.

Then Thranduil stepped out of the room with Elfir. "We found the apothecary dead," Thranduil told him quietly. "Throat slashed."

Elfir nodded, his eyes dark. "Silenced, just like Narylfiel's attacker. Your majesty, I fear for your safety and hers. Why did they target her? Or was the attack intended for you?"

"Or both," Thranduil conceded wearily. "If this plot was orchestrated by Maubûrz, he knew of my fondness for her."

"Fondness, your Majesty?" Elfir asked archly.

Thranduil blinked and glanced into the room, where Narylfiel sat forlornly on the cot, smoothing down the bandages on her hands. "Yes," he said, but his eyes softened.

"Long have I served you, my lord, and long have I wished you joy. I am honored to protect you both until my last breath," Elfir said, bowing his head in an elven salute. "We are all very…fond of Narylfiel. I will go and make the arrangements to leave."

Thranduil nodded graciously and then went inside the healer's room, pulling the door shut quietly behind him. His eyes met hers as he crossed the room and took a place beside her on the cot. Wordlessly, he picked up one of her hands and turned it over to inspect the neat bandage that Melui had tied. He kissed the top of her hand and then picked up the other one and repeated his actions. It did not escape his notice that both of her hands were cold to the touch.

"Wilem could be lying," Thranduil told her softly. "I don't trust him."

"Why would he lie—about his own father no less?" Narylfiel shook her head. "Thranduil, what Wilem said makes sense. Even after you healed me—the way the cold has bothered me, and I've felt so weak…"

Thranduil gathered her into his arms and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "We have not even had our best healers examine you yet," he countered, rubbing a soothing pattern of circles on her back.

"That's true," she conceded, looking up at him, "but what if…" she couldn't bring herself to say the words.

"It does not matter," Thranduil told her, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her against his chest.

"After Wilem said…what he said about the poison, you looked at me and then just left the room, Thranduil," Narylfiel pointed out, her voice quiet. "I thought that maybe you—"

Thranduil cut her off. "I was this close to beheading him on the floor of the healing room," he said, holding his thumb and pointer finger close together. "I left the room because I had to, Narylfiel. It had nothing to do with how I feel about you. I was going to kill him." He didn't mention how sick he had felt.

"Thranduil," Narylfiel protested and leaned her head against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat, strong and certain against her ear.

"I still might kill him," Thranduil added darkly, "but first, I plan on petitioning Brand to let Wilem accompany us to our forest. If he can find a cure to help you, I want my best healers to keep an eye on him."

Then the Elvenking adjusted his arms around Narylfiel and stood up, taking her with him, to which she protested. "Thranduil! I _can_ walk, you know."

He silenced her with a look. "Let me do this, naurenniel. It would make me feel better if you accepted my help."

"I suppose," she said and rested her head against his shoulder, "but I don't want to be treated like I am helpless."

"No one would dare suggest otherwise," the Elvenking said and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

Thranduil deposited Narylfiel in his own room with Dorwil standing guard over her. She had hardly fussed about it, which indicated how shaken she really was. Normally, she would have complained about having to have a guard, and she certainly would not have let him carry her the entire way to her room. She would feel better once they returned to the safety and comfort of his own halls, he promised himself.

Thranduil heard the shouts and arguing from the king's council down the hall before he saw them. As could be expected, the dwarves were belligerently loud over the discovery of the apothecary's hand in the poisoning of their warriors. In this case, Thranduil actually felt their outrage was entirely merited, not that he would ever admit it.

He slipped into the meeting as Bard finished his account of Wilem's father's misdeeds to King Brand. He ended the retelling by showing everyone at the table a heavy looking leather-bound book. The dwarves stood up from their seats to lean in for a closer look.

"Such a book seems entirely evil," Brand concluded. "Perhaps it should be destroyed before more mischief can be concocted."

Dwalin leaped up from his chair and pounded the table with a mighty fist. "Perhaps we destroy it and this scheming weasel both with my ax!"

King Thranduil straightened in his seat. "I would ask that you spare both the book and Wilem's life, King Brand. Allow me to take him to my kingdom, so that he may find an antidote."

Thorin bristled. "Why should the elves be given custody of this dangerous text or the possible antidote? The dwarves have suffered much from this poison already!"

Brand nodded patiently. "Elven healing has great knowledge of such matters," he said kindly. "It may be our best hope to finding any sort of cure, one that I am sure would be shared between all races." The king gave Thranduil a pointed look.

"Of course," Thranduil agreed without bothering to glance at the dwarves.

"We would want to send a delegate to check on your healer's progress, King Brand," Thorin insisted. "To make sure knowledge of any discoveries were shared equitably. That would only be fair."

Thranduil swallowed a grimace at the thought of dwarves coming to his realm. He managed a small smile. "Naturally, the Woodland Realm would welcome delegates from both Dale and Erebor."

"Well, that settles it," Brand said and stood. "Wilem, pack your things. You'll be leaving with the elven guard for Mirkwood." King Brand looked to both Thranduil and the dwarves. "Farewell, friends of Dale. May we see happier times in the coming months. We will, of course, keep open lines of communication regarding any progress with the cure or upcoming threats from the enemy."

* * *

So it was that an unprecedented event occurred in the city of Dale early that morning. The elven guards left the citadel with their proud king and one of Dale's own men. Wilem, son of Wychelm, would travel to the elven realm of Mirkwood. More than a few people came out from their doors to peer curiously at the Elvenking and his guards, to watch in awe as the beautiful company swept past them with their shining raiment and long hair, caught in the morning sun.

This time Narylfiel rode up front on her little white horse beside her king on his Giant Elk; on either side rode Elfir and Dorwil. The Royal Guard's eyes were fierce, and their hands never strayed far from the swords on their belts. If any of the other members of the guard paid much attention to the new riding arrangement, they did not comment upon it among themselves. The attack on Narylfiel had already been much discussed and worried over. Even after her embarrassing dismissal from the guard, many still counted her as one of their own; and none of the guards liked that a member of the royal family had been targeted, particularly one so close to their king.

Even now, many of the guards silently noted how often their king's eyes drifted to the elleth riding beside him and recalled how he had taken such care to see Narylfiel to her horse. The young lady in question was, of course, oblivious to their curious looks and amused shared glances. She was incredibly happy to be returning home by Thranduil's side, but she also could not help but wonder and worry about the upcoming days. Her king had already informed her that she would be seeing all the healers on a regular basis until her health returned. She cast that unhappy thought aside. Then there was the troublesome, but exciting, prospect of the upcoming Yule feast. Earlier Thranduil said he wanted to announce their engagement then, after he spoke with the Elder Council, of course.

Narylfiel's eyes drifted to the elf who rode beside her, so tall and strong, and her heart beat a little faster at the memory of how he had kissed her last night, how he had pulled her against him in his arms. She blushed a little at the thought of returning with him to that long, empty royal hall, his chambers only a few doors down from hers.

She remembered the way his hands had felt in her hair, against her body.

No, Yule really could not come fast enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the first major arc of this story is wrapping up and our couple returns home to the forest. Keep in mind that on our timeline, the Fellowship has yet to leave Rivendell! They will not venture out until the end of December. There is much, much more to come in this story, so hang in there with me! 
> 
> -And oh, the dwarves will be paying a visit to Mirkwood! They can't let Thranduil hog the secrets to any cure that Wilem might cook up. So be expecting a visit from some dwarves at the most inopportune time possible, probably.
> 
> Thranduil: #NoVisitors #StayOut #WhyMe?
> 
> Please leave comments, kudos, and subscribe/bookmark!


	23. Welcomed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil seeks a professional opinion...

_Four hundred years ago…_

_Thranduil leaned on his heavy ornamental staff as he surveyed the wide sweep of grass under the trees. In truth, he usually enjoyed these sorts of days, seeing all of his people turned out in their finest, making merry. It was the annual celebration for the Feast of Flowers, the coming of spring to the Greenwood, but Thranduil's attention was drawn to the latest additions to his family, his son's new bride and her sister. Legolas and Thaliniel had been married for less than a month, and the Elvenking had been very careful to make sure the sisters' transition to the palace and royal life had been a pleasant one and that all of his courtiers had strived to make them feel welcome. He was protective of his own._

_His eyes were drawn to Thaliniel, pink-cheeked and laughing as Legolas drew her under the trees with the other dancing couples. He had never seen his son act so carefree, so…happy. Thranduil did not fool himself that it could always be this way; he watched the south with a particularly careful eye. One day the darkness would return and cast its shadows onto his borders. He would need Legolas then, would depend on him to hold their kingdom together, but for now, he was glad to see his people untroubled, their hearts light. They had suffered so much already._

_Thranduil's bright blue eyes scanned the crowd for the smallest addition to his family. Narylfiel. She was a handful, but Thranduil could not help but enjoy her. He straightened up. He did not see that dark little head of hair of hers anywhere. He glanced at the most likely option, the food tables. Not there. She loved dancing and music. He looked toward the merry lines of couples swaying together. Not there, either. She knew better than to wander into the woods alone, he told himself. He leaned his staff against his chair, and stepped down from the dais._

_Galion, his butler, was at his side immediately. "Your Majesty, may I bring you something?"_

_Thranduil shook his head. "No, Galion. Do you see Narylfiel?"_

_The elf craned his head and after some careful looking, replied: "No, my lord. I will find her at once and bring her to you."_

" _That will not be necessary, Galion," the king told him. "I only wish to make sure that she is enjoying herself tonight."_

" _I will see that she is," Galion assured him, and the well-meaning butler left at once to find her._

_Unfortunately, Galion could not find the young lady so easily. Now, the butler already knew of her fondness for games, including hide-and-seek. He wondered if she had spotted him looking for her in the crowd and decided to play!_

_Galion noticed three young ellyth, about Narylfiel's age, on the other side of hollow. Perhaps, they would know her whereabouts. When he reached them, they stared up at him, with their mouths slightly open. The butler enjoyed their reaction, truth be told: he was, after all, wearing his finest embroidered tunic and vest, the one with the gold thread worked into the crest of the House of Oropher._

" _Good evening, young ladies," he greeted them in a kindly voice._

" _Good evening, sir," they chorused back._

_Galion knelt down, so he would be eye-level with them. "I am looking for another young lady, about your age," he said. "She is the new princess's sister, Narylfiel. Have you seen her?"_

_The young ladies exchanged glances. "I am sorry, sir, but we have not seen her tonight," the one in the middle of the trio said._

" _But you know who she is," pressed Galion. "Have you been introduced?"_

_The one on the end nodded. "But maybe she did not come to the party tonight, sir."_

_Galion stood and dusted off_ the _knee of his pants. "No, she is here, somewhere. Thank you for your time, ladies." He walked a few steps toward where the wine casks were set up when he heard the higher-pitched voices of the three young girls._

" _She's probably down at the stables, crying into the hay again," said one of the voices._

" _Now, Reviel, that's unkind. I feel a little sorry for her."_

" _Sorry for her?" piped the third voice. "She moved in with the royal family, Nessima!"_

" _Still, I think it would be hard…"_

_Galion pivoted on his heel and returned to stand before the young girls. "I could not help but overhear what you just said," he told them, smiling gently. He pointed up toward the dais, where King Thranduil still looked out into the crowds from a beautifully carved wooden chair. "Our king wishes for everyone to have a good time tonight at the feast, including you and including Lady Narylfiel." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Have you ever met King Thranduil?"_

_The three young ladies shook their heads 'no.' The one in the middle, Reviel, whispered back: "I heard my ada say to my naneth that the King is scary when he gets angry."_

_Galion smothered a grin. She had no idea. Instead, he fixed them all with a very serious look and told them: "I am the King's butler. It is my duty to see that he has all he needs. Do you know what he asked for tonight?"_

" _No, sir," the three ellyth answered._

" _He expressly wished that Lady Narylfiel have a very good time at the feast tonight. Now, I cannot even find her, and I do not wish to disappoint His Majesty."_

_The third little elleth, Nessima, spoke up. "We could help you, sir. I don't want her to be lonely." She frowned at the middle elleth. "And don't elbow me, Reviel!"_

" _Yes, Reviel, don't elbow her," Galion echoed and then leaned toward her and whispered. "The king is watching."_

_Reviel gulped, her eyes darting toward the dais._

_Galion straightened and smoothed down his tunic. "Thank you for your help in these matters, ladies. I deeply appreciate your assistance."_

_Nessima stepped forward, tugged on his tunic. "Sir? I see Narylfiel."_

_Galion's face broke into a wide grin. "You do? Where?"_

_Nessima pointed toward the dais and the king. "There, sir." And much to Galion's dismay, he spotted Lady Narylfiel leaning on the arm of the king's chair. She seemed to be deep in conversation with Thranduil._

_Galion pursed his lips and nodded briefly to the young ladies with a clipped thank you and returned to his king._

_Thranduil caught sight of him and waved him up to the dais. "Look who I found," he said with a smirk._

" _Yes, Your Majesty," Galion said and then addressed Narylfiel. "Are you having a good time at the feast tonight, my lady?"_

" _Well…" Narylfiel looked down and pretended to straighten out the ruffles on her swishy spring green dress._

_Just then Galion noticed something that had his eyes shining. He pointed down the steps of the dais. "It seems as though you have some friends who would like for you to join them, Narylfiel." Nessima, the kind little elleth that Galion had spoken with earlier, waved shyly to Narylfiel. She had two other different elflings with her, although the one named Reviel was conspicuously absent._

_Narylfiel's eyes lit up. She looked expectantly to Thranduil, and he waved her off with an indulgent smile. She bounded down the steps two at a time without looking back._

" _Did you see that, King Thranduil?" Galion whispered and then tapped himself on the chest proudly. "I did that."_

_King Thranduil watched her go, his lips curving up as the other little elfling girl hooked her arm through Narylfiel's. Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at Galion who had puffed up his chest with sudden pride. The king chuckled and then picked up his glass._

" _Galion, more wine please," he said, "and this time, bring back a glass for yourself. After all, this is Mereth Lotesse. Let us toast to new beginnings."_

* * *

November, 3018

Hûredhiel was not in her office, when Thranduil swung open the door and entered the smallish, cluttered room. Thranduil could remember when Hûredhiel had requested the shelves to be built, and now they were crammed full of numerous records, bottles, and various bits of nature brought indoors.

A creamy white seashell drew Thranduil's eye. It perched on the lower shelf amid the other objects—pinecones, a pretty polished stone, a framed rubbing of a birch leaf. Thranduil's hand hovered over the shell. He briefly thought of the sea, a wide expanse of water as far as the eye could see and ships with white sails, drawn in the wind.

"Thranduil!" A voice exclaimed from the door. "What brings you here?"

The Elvenking snatched his hand back from the shell, glanced at the door.

"You say that as though I never visit you," he said with a wry smile, at the dark-haired healer, a tall elleth with kindly features. Long had she lived and practiced healing in his realm; Hûredhiel had come out of Doriath among many other refugees, following his father to Amon Lanc and then finally settling in the protection of his Halls as the forest grew more dangerous.

"I stand corrected," she said in mock seriousness. "You did visit—ten years ago." Smiling, she drew the door shut and welcomed her king to join her in sitting in the pair of chairs at a table in the back of the room, where Thranduil knew she liked to consult with the occasional patient or mother-to-be.

"What brings you here?" she asked.

"You forget that I know how you like to play these games," Thranduil countered, straightening the wide cuff on his sleeve. "You know why I am here. You would have already heard the news."

"Even so," she admitted. "I always like to give my patients a chance to speak for themselves."

"I am not one of your patients," he corrected her. "But something happened, and I would ask your advice."

"Something happened…" she repeated. "To you?"

"Sort of," he hedged. "Narylfiel was poisoned by an orc blade."

"I did hear of that," she said worriedly. "I was a little surprised that you have not marched her down here yet. You healed her?"

"I used a healing bond to draw out the poison, but it was difficult." Thranduil's mouth drew into a straight line at the memory. He still felt guilty that Narylfiel suffered from his error in judgment, his inability to finish the job.

She leaned forward, listened. "What was difficult?"

"This was a new type of poison; I had never seen its equal. Supposedly this poison can make elves mortal," Thranduil explained.

"How do you know of this?" she asked disbelievingly.

Thranduil let out an exasperated sigh. "I know you would have already met your new tenant, Wilem. His father made the poison."

"Yes, and he wants to find the antidote. You have reason to believe that Narylfiel was injured by this poison?" She stood and walking over to her shelves, drew several books off the top shelf. She brought them back to the table and plopped them down in front of her king. Thranduil recognized a few of them. Hûredhiel opened the top and flipped through the pages to a section on dangerous poisons and how to counteract them.

The Elvenking tiredly brushed his hair back over his shoulders and peered at the page. "None of these poisons are equal to the one inflicted upon Narylfiel. I've never seen poison so strong, so resistant, and you know that I have seen enough poisonings through the years to know."

"And the healing bond was not enough?" Hûredhiel's voice was skeptical-not because she did not believe her king, but only because she knew of his past successes in these matters.

Now Thranduil flushed a little. "Something happened, and I was not able to finish drawing the poison out."

She sat back in her chair, surprise flitting across her face. Thranduil was usually the one they called for when the most severe cases came in. "Well," she said and paused. "It can be extremely difficult to sustain a connection, especially if there are distractions." She looked appraisingly at him. "Were there?"

"Distractions?" Thranduil traced the wood grain on the table with his finger. "Yes." He paused, swallowed. "I pushed too hard." He heard her sharp intake of breath and made himself look into her worried eyes. "I saw a memory or a dream of hers…and then I lost the connection."

"Oh." Sudden understanding colored her voice. "She has always cared for you, admired you," hedged Hûredhiel.

Thranduil found himself staring at the leaf engraving. "I ended up taking her to Erebor, for the dwarves had a supply of blood grass. And the more time passed, the less I found myself wanting to end the bond," he said quietly.

"Oh, your Grace," she said, unable to keep the dismay from her voice.

Hûredhiel reached across the table, placed her hand over both of his folded ones. She had known him for many years, before he was king, before he had the cares and worries he had now.

"She cares for you." She soothingly patted the top of his hand. "And you care for her?" It came out as more of an observation than a question.

Thranduil nodded and then forced himself to say the words. "I am very fond—no," he corrected himself. "I care a great deal for her. I am going to marry her, Hûredhiel."

"You did not end the healing bond?" she asked a little incredulously.

"No, I made myself end it after I drew out the last of the poison, or thought I did." Thranduil absently rubbed his chest. "But I there are times that I still feel it, like an ache."

Hûredhiel stood again, returned to the shelves where she selected a single slim book. She sat down with it, but rather than open to any specific pages, just clutched it in her lap. "You know how dangerous those kinds of bonds can be," she chided him, but her words only sounded worried. She opened the book, turned to a page toward the middle and then shut it again. Hûredhiel was the only other person in the palace that knew of how the king had severed his bond with his first wife. He had come to her then, grieving, seeking answers, and he had come again to her now. She would give him reason to hope, if she could.

"But then again, your healer's bond with Narylfiel may have saved her life," she opened the book back up, thumbed through the pages again, until she stopped and pointed toward a certain passage about the connection between feä and hroä.

"The elven feä sustains the life of the Eldar," she read, following the words along with her finger. "It feeds and nourishes the hroä, giving elves strength and endurance beyond mortal creatures."

Thranduil leaned over and peered at the beautifully penned illustration of an elven body, the hroä, criss-crossed, bound by an intricate network of glowing lines, representing the feä. He remembered the feeling of Narylfiel's song and the warmth of his bond with her.

"But she may be dying," Thranduil countered. "Wilem said as much." He turned the page over and scanned the contents, where the author listed all the different kinds of elven bonds: healing bonds, parent bonds, liege bonds, love bonds, marriage bonds.

"What if I made another bond with her?" he asked quietly staring at the page. "Do you think it would help?"

She smiled and gently closed the book. "Bond magic is one of the Valar's most blessed gifts. But you know better than I, that nothing is certain, Thranduil. Not even the wisest among us can see all ends."

The Elvenking looked up sharply. "I am meeting with the Elder Council tomorrow morning."

She stood and gathered up the books to return them to the shelf. "Are you?" she asked with a soft tilt to her head as she studied him.

Thranduil pushed his chair back and rose from the table. His eyes flitted to the book on bond magic that Hûredhiel had left in front of him and he picked it up. "I plan on announcing my betrothal to Narylfiel," he said as he headed toward the door. "Will you be there?"

"My king, you know that I have declined my seat on the council for many years now." She set the remainder of the books on the ledge of the shelf and crossed the room. She hesitated and then touched his cheek. She could still remember when he hid behind his mother's skirts, and she could still remember the horrible days when his father's warriors had brought him to her rooms, burnt, scarred, dying. He had been strong then; he was even stronger now. "You have never sought, nor required their good opinion or their permission in anything." Hûredhiel shook her head. "Why now, Thranduil?"

"You are right, of course," he said, glancing down at the book in his hands. "But seeking their approval is not for me. This is for Narylfiel."

She smiled then. "I find myself almost tempted to attend," she told him, her eyes merry. "Please send down Narylfiel. I would like to check that wound myself."

Thranduil nodded and turned to leave. A few paces down the hall, Elfir waited for him, his hands clasped behind his back. He fell into step beside his king and followed him all the way back to the royal family's wing. There, Elfir stopped and would stand guard, until Dorwil or one of the other royal guards relieved him. It did not escape Elfir's notice that the king's first stop was not his own quarters, but Lady Narylfiel's.

Thranduil knocked twice and then slowly cracked the door open to peek inside. They had only been home for a few hours, and Narylfiel had commented that she was going to order a bath and then an enormous plate from the kitchens. Thranduil, too, had taken the opportunity to tidy himself up and change into fresh robes, but that had only been a short reprieve. He had been unendingly busy since, hearing about Galadhor's management of his Halls in his absence to reports from the southern border, and then he had stolen some time for himself to speak with Hûredhiel.

The Elvenking silently stepped into her room and pulled the door shut behind him. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth at the trail of clothing across the floor and the open drawers with bits of lacy clothing spilling over the top. A half-eaten plate balanced on the edge of her dressing table. Narylfiel was not what anyone would call 'neat;' he remembered how Thaliniel used to despair over getting her little sister to tidy her room. He briefly fought with an urge to tidy the room himself before he spotted his beloved.

The elleth in question was fast asleep, a pillow bunched beneath one arm and her other arm dangling off the side of her bed. Her eyes were closed, her long lashes fanning across her cheek, and when Thranduil sat down on the edge of the bed beside her, her forehead felt cool to his touch. Frowning, he drew up the warm woven blanket from the foot of her bed; it was a soft lilac color, one of Narylfiel's favorites. He tucked the blanket around her, and then after some consideration, repositioned her into the center of the bed, so her arm was not hanging off the side. Then after a little more consideration, Thranduil pulled her into his arms and held her while she slept, all the while thinking of what he must say in the morning to the Elder Council when he delivered the news of their engagement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please Comment, Leave Kudos, and Subscribe/Bookmark!
> 
> Thranduil: I really couldn't go to sleep because the room was so messy.😱
> 
> #MyMessyGF #Horrified
> 
> Narylfiel: #NeatFreak #GimmeaBreak
> 
> In the next chapter, Thranduil delivers the news to his Elder Council... and maybe Narylfiel cleans her room...or not. ;)


	24. Commanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil makes an announcement.

_Three thousand years ago…_

_Thranduil cut a straight path through the trees, hurdling fallen logs, dodging branches. He neither stopped, nor slowed. The prince of the Green Wood was desperate to put distance between his father and himself._

_It was not that he was running away, he told himself. He wasn't. He just did not want to be under the same roof as his father. He could not breathe there; he felt too constrained, like all of the king's expectations had piled up on him into an insurmountable weight._

_His father had spoken to him of choices, even though it was clear to Thranduil that as a prince, he had none. He never had. King Oropher had made that abundantly clear to Thranduil this evening._

_And part of him could not help but wonder how things would have been different if his mother was still alive. Thranduil knew his father loved him, but he also recognized that Oropher had crafted a certain distance between who he was as a father and who he was as the king of the Woodland Realm._

… _Tonight after a painfully long dinner with his father's advisors and court, his father had walked with Thranduil back to their chambers. They had laughed together over Lord Filron's purple spangled robes. By the time the prince reached his room, however, his father—nay, the king—asked if they might discuss an important matter._

_Of course, Thranduil had consented. Only later would he wish that he had feigned indigestion and avoided hearing his father's request._

_Adar wanted him to marry. War was coming, he explained, and it was time to secure the Realm's line of succession. Thranduil laughed when his father first brought up the idea, but one look told him the king was very serious._

_His father's closest advisor and most powerful ally, Turwë had a lovely daughter, who was of age…_

_With his heart pounding right out of his chest, Thranduil slowed his pace to a jog. He swept the hair from his eyes and wandered toward the gurgling sounds of a nearby brook. When he found its source, he knelt down amid the round stones and ferns. Cupping his hands, he splashed some water onto his burning cheeks._

_Elarien, Turwë's daughter, was very beautiful, with long waves of white-gold hair and dusky grey eyes. Thranduil had always thought her lovely, graceful, good. Truth be told, he did not know her very well. He certainly did not love her…but maybe it was meant to be this way. His father saw something he did not. His father wanted the best for him, but also the best for his kingdom. This alliance would bring together two powerful houses._

_Thranduil splashed some more water onto his cheeks, sat back on his heels and sighed._

_He did not want this. He did not want to have to think about responsibility or honor and sacrifice. Truth be told, he was sick of hearing about his duties as prince. He knew he should help his father and be a support to him, but right now, all Thranduil wanted was to be alone._

_He would much rather hunt or stroll through the forest and listen to the trees. He definitely would prefer to be out on guard duty or training with his friends._

… _His father had sternly sat him down and told him the most ridiculous allegory about an arrow and a hart._

_Thranduil wished he would have fled the room right then…but he had not. He had sat there, like a good son should, and listened dutifully._

" _The hart," Oropher explained with his hands folded behind his back, "led all the forest with his strength and power; yet for all his wisdom and might, the hart understood that inherent sacrifice ruled his fate. At any time, he might have to give his life to the hunter's bow so that others could live from the nourishment of his meat or the warmth of his hide."_

_Thranduil stiffened in his chair, but said nothing._

_Oropher continued on, pleased by his son's quiet deference, "At the same time, the forest also lived under the dominion of the hunter's arrow. The arrow was sleek and powerful, as swift as the running wind. The arrow knew that his flight also came at terrible cost—one of cruelty and pain; his chosen path often brought suffering to others."_

_The prince swallowed, the sweet wine from dinner now bitter in the back of his throat. Resentment thickened in his heart._

_Oropher carefully appraised his son, not fully liking what he saw flickering in the prince's eyes. "Thranduil, one day you may rule this realm in my absence. You cannot always make decisions based on your personal feelings or what you think you may want. Sometimes you have to be like the hart—a role which requires strength and personal sacrifice."_

_He paused and went to his son's side, placed a hand on his shoulder. "Son, war threatens our doorstep. Gil-galad musters his armies, and I would have the commitment of all the lords' banners before we march. Turwë asks only that our houses be united through your marriage to his daughter."_

_The arrow or the hart. Thranduil saw the little story for what it really was—a veiled warning from his father that duty and kingdom would always come first. Duty and kingdom…_

_Thranduil stood up and let his eyes follow the merry little brook's path as it curled around the trees and ferns, and not for the first time, nor the last, Thranduil wished that he was not the prince of the Woodland Realm. If he ever had a son, he would never tell him such an insipid story, Thranduil vowed. He sighed and then began his way back toward his father's halls. Arrow or the hart. Thranduil knew which his father expected him to be and hated it._

_Once, just for once, Thranduil wished he could be like any other elf, free to live in these woods under his own volition, make choices and mistakes as any of the other guards. He wanted to be able to catch a young maiden's eye at the fire circle and know that she liked him for who he was, and not for his title or wealth._

_The prince cast his eyes up to the sky and briefly admired the orange streaks through the clouds from the rising sun. He blankly plucked at the ends of his hair while he stared upward, past the trees, wondering if there would ever come a time when he would feel free. It wouldn't be today. Thranduil supposed he had postponed the inevitable long enough. He turned to take the long road to his father's halls. He did not look back._

* * *

December 1, 3018:

Narylfiel woke up to the feeling of a heavy arm tucked around her waist, and her mind immediately went to that first morning in Dale when she had woken up to find Thranduil in bed with her, holding her; he had spoken of their healing bond and her dream, and then everything had changed between them. If being so close to him then had been a wonderful feeling, it was even more so now, in Narylfiel's own bed. He must have come to her last night when she had already fallen asleep. Her heart soared at the idea of him needing her, wanting her enough even to come to her on his own.

Narylfiel twisted ever so slightly, just enough that she could see him behind her.

Thranduil was still asleep, with his head on her pillow, and just for a moment or two, Narylfiel allowed herself to stare at him up close. He was so beautiful, and even sweet looking, right now when he was at peace. Narylfiel longed to reach over and outline his lips with her fingers, to trace the thin white line that crossed from below his ear and down his neck. She was sure it was a scar from some old battle, and she cringed to think about how it might have happened. Forgetting herself, she leaned over and pressed her lips to his.

She felt him stir and then smile against her mouth. His arms closed around her and pulled her into him. He was so warm, and Narylfiel flushed at the feeling of his body against hers, his chest, his arms holding her tightly.

"Good morning," he told her softly, easing his hold on her to permit himself the freedom of combing his fingers through her hair and then angling her head toward his for a slow, sleepy kiss.

"Good morning, Thranduil," Narylfiel said and added, "This was a nice way to wake up." She rather hoped she was not grinning like a complete fool, but if she was, she could hardly help it! Waking up like this—well, it was more like dreaming than being awake; except she was actually awake, staring at King Thranduil, golden headed and completely delicious, spooning beside her. He had shared her pillow.

Thranduil stretched a little and grinned at her. "I loathe the idea of returning to my own chambers alone."

"You're always welcome here," Narylfiel told him hopefully, leaning her head against his shoulder.

"Of course, I'm welcome; these _are_ my halls," Thranduil joked and then the playful light in his eyes darkened as he trailed a lazy path down from the thin sleeve of her nightgown to her bare arm. "I want to take you to my chambers, Narylfiel. I want you in my bed."

"I'm free tonight," she said, her pulse quickening at his words combined with the action of his warm fingertips sliding down her skin.

Thranduil pushed a hand through his hair and pulled her closer, kissed her temple. "That would not be…very prudent. I would not want to give the council any opportunity to criticize our union or for them to discredit you by saying you were just another elleth the king fancied.

Narylfiel sat up a little and frowned. She straightened up enough so she could meet his eyes. Although her little heart hurt at the idea of other ellyth or even Thranduil's first wife, she had to know: "Were there other ellyth?" she heard herself ask, dreading the answer.

"Yes," Thranduil answered honestly, meeting her eyes.

Narylfiel looked down and then forced herself to meet his eyes again. "Recently?"

"No," he told her. "But after Elarien left, I harbored a small hope that I would have another chance. I did have relationships with a few ellyth, but these were always very discreet...and disappointing."

At this point, Narylfiel managed a nod. She oddly felt like crying at the thought of Thranduil being with someone else, loving someone else, and she knew it was slightly ridiculous. He was so much older than her, and lonely, and probably had these relationships before she was even born. Still, it stung.

"They weren't you, Narylfiel," he told her softly. "I never felt for them what I feel for you." He tipped her chin up and kissed her lips. "I want you to know that I never brought anyone to my chambers after the queen left. I never wanted to. Until now." He met her eyes and eased his fingers through her hair again. "Until I felt what our bond could be like that night in Dale. The warmth and the force of it, Narylfiel, I've never felt anything like it."

Narylfiel felt her ears grow warm. "Thranduil," she said, her voice hitching, "you know that I've never…"

"I know," he said and covered her lips with his own. His body leaned into hers, and he pulled her close to his chest. "I am glad," he whispered, his lips close to her ear. "I do not like to share." With his arms folded around her, they stayed together that way for just a little while longer before Thranduil supposed the chambermaids would start making their rounds.

Reluctantly, he let go of her, and Narylfiel sat up. She absently rubbed her chest over her heart, already feeling a twinge from the loss of him. Thranduil noticed, of course, and frowned.

"I want you to go to see Hûredhiel first thing this morning, Narylfiel," Thranduil said firmly. Before she could even open her mouth to protest, he added, "I trust her. She knows about the bond. She knows about us. It would make me feel better to have a second opinion."

Narylfiel nodded, albeit reluctantly. "If it would ease your mind."

"It would." Thranduil paused to trail his fingers over her long hair. "Meanwhile, I will be meeting with the Elder Council."

Narylfiel grimaced. "Oh, well, that is a good idea, I guess."

Thranduil smirked. "Let me worry about them, naurenniel. We have much to discuss of the recent events in Dale. As for our betrothal—I can be very persuasive, I assure you."

"Don't I know it…" muttered Narylfiel as she got up from the bed, slipped on her robe. She followed Thranduil to the door, and then peeked into the hall, just to make sure no one spied the Elvenking leaving her chambers looking disheveled. No need to start any untoward rumors just yet.

"The hall is empty," she told him. "I will see you later?" She really wished he could just stay with her.

He nodded. "The council meeting might last for several hours. It is very likely to run past lunchtime," Thranduil guessed and frowned a little as he noticed her worried expression. "Join me for tea later? Maybe with some dinner?"

"I will arrange it," Narylfiel promised, and her king smiled a devious smile as a thought occurred to him.

"Although after the council meeting, I might rather have some wine…"

Narylfiel laughed then and attempted to shoo him out the door, but not before he pulled her into his arms and left a scorching kiss upon her lips.

* * *

Narylfiel took her time getting dressed. She could hardly concentrate on what she was doing. Her mind was full of Thranduil and the unexpected surprise of finding him in her bed this morning. And even though she reminded herself not to think twice about it, she kept going back to Thranduil's open admission of taking lovers in the past. Narylfiel was sure he would tell her their names if she pressed him—he had always been candid with her—but she was not sure if she really wanted to know. So, she tried not to think about it as she finished brushing out her hair, and she tried not to think about it as she sent a request down to the kitchens for the king's tea.

Still, though…a couple of names kept surfacing in her mind, ellyth whom she knew favored or had long admired the king. The worst part of it was that all of the ladies that kept coming to mind were all stunningly beautiful, all courtly and gifted, graceful and elegant. None of them were grubby little forest guards. Well, former forest guards, Narylfiel reminded herself and quirked an eyebrow at her reflection in her dresser mirror as she grabbed a handful of clothing and stuffed it into the laundry basket, realizing with a growing horror that Thranduil had seen her room looking so…unkempt. She resolved to pick up some more when she came back from seeing Hûredhiel, just in case her king decided to pay her another visit. She would find a better dress too, and spend some time arranging her hair! She would be the epitome of grace and elegance when she met with the king for tea later this afternoon.

The door was open to Hûredhiel's healing room when Narylfiel arrived, and the lovely healer greeted her from inside the room.

"Lady Narylfiel," she said, a soft smile on her lips. "I am glad to see you this morning." The healer pulled her long hair into a low messy bun and guided her young patient to the consulting table at the rear of the room. Then she glanced thoughtfully at the open door. "Just a moment, please," she excused herself and firmly shut the door.

"I am very sorry to hear about your troubles lately," Hûredhiel said, her eyes sympathetic.

"How are you feeling?"

Narylfiel hesitated. Service in the Forest Guard had ingrained in her to be tough, to be strong and uncomplaining. "I'm still a little weak, a little cold at times."

"I see." Hûredhiel's eyes were sympathetic as she jotted some notes in a small leather bound journal. Then she reached over and felt Narylfiel's forehead. "The king is very concerned about your well-being, Narylfiel," she said kindly, her mouth curving up. "I would like to examine your wound, if you do not mind."

"It's hardly a wound," Narylfiel stated as she moved over to the little cot in the room. "It's more like a scratch really. It's frustrating to think such a little thing could be so dangerous, so worrisome." She sat down and loosened her shirt from her long dark skirt.

Hûredhiel sat down next to her on a stool and bade Narylfiel to lie down. She met the young elleth's eyes. "It is never wise to underestimate the power of little things, Narylfiel. In my work, I have come to see that sometimes the smallest details can often make the biggest difference."

Narylfiel rested her head against the small pillow on the cot. "Perhaps," she agreed, "but I wish that more people shared your opinion."

"King Thranduil does," Hûredhiel said, her eyes warm. "He has a keen eye for potential."

She gently lifted up the shirt, and then removed the bandage covering the cut. The skin around the wound had faded into an unhealthy shade of gray and still looked a little swollen. "It's not healing as well as it should," Hûredhiel said and rose from her seat to gather some fresh linen and a few little jars to treat the injury. "I am going to apply some of this ointment," she told Narylfiel, and tonight I would like for you to put on a fresh bandage and some more of this salve. But before I do that, I would like to call in Wilem to see your injury, with your permission of course."

Narylfiel consented and a few minutes later, Hûredhiel returned with Wilem. The thin young man greeted her merrily, happy to see a familiar face, she supposed, and then both healers turned their attention to Narylfiel's injury.

"It's fortunate that it was such a shallow cut," Wilem said, studying the wound. "I don't particularly like the way it's healing, though. Elves heal faster don't they?"

"Yes, in normal conditions they would," Hûredhiel agreed. "I plan on treating the cut with this mixture of athelas, algar salque, and yarrow. We'll see what affect it has." She carefully spread the mixture onto the wound and covered it with a fresh bandage. "Narylfiel, I would like you to come in tomorrow for a check-up."

Narylfiel gingerly sat up, adjusted her shirt. "Thank you for your time, both of you. I hate being such a bother," she said and meant it wholeheartedly.

"Oh, it's no bother, and I am glad to help you—and the king!" Wilem said brightly. He picked up small bag that he had brought with him. "Actually, if it's not too much trouble, I would like to collect some of your blood, my lady."

Narylfiel paled a little. "How…how is this done?" She was no stranger to pain—she was a Forest Guard—but that did not mean she welcome the sight of blood, especially her own!

"I could place a shallow cut on your arm and let you bleed into a collection bowl," he said and cheerfully pulled a shallow dish from his bag. "Or I could apply some leeches to your forearm." He then produced a clear jar with a gauze top, in which three corpulent leeches clung to the glass.

"Ugh." She glanced over at Hûredhiel, and the healer did not look any more enthusiastic about Wilem's methods.

"A sample of your blood could be most helpful in making and testing the antidote to the poison," Wilem added.

Narylfiel crossed her arms. She could feel the bandage under her shirt, where the shallow knife wound under her ribs was a dull throb.

"Let me speak privately to Lady Narylfiel for a moment, please," Hûredhiel said gently and led Wilem from the room, shutting the door behind him.

"Do you think giving him some of my blood will actually help?" Narylfiel asked doubtfully.

"It very well could," Hûredhiel answered, "but I do not fully trust that man or his methods." Her eyes worriedly went to the door and she lowered her voice. "I do not like the idea of you giving him your blood. Blood magic is very real, and our enemy has used it in the past to horrible effect."

Narylfiel bit her lip. "But he might also use it to help people, save lives. If you watched him carefully…"

Hûredhiel sat down across from her. "You are brave, Narylfiel, and selfless," she said. Her almond-shaped hazel eyes met Narylfiel's. "And you are also very dear to our king. Thranduil loves you."

Narylfiel blushed. "Did he tell you this?" For someone who was usually so direct, Thranduil had yet to say those words to her, even though he had said many other wonderful things.

"Not in so many words, dear one, but he's showing all the symptoms," Hûredhiel said. "He is very worried about you. I do not think he would approve of Wilem's idea."

Narylfiel took a deep breath and glanced toward the door. Right now, Thranduil was probably meeting with the Elder Council, announcing his plans for their future together. Narylfiel was not even sure if she had much of a future any more. She absently rubbed the spot over her heart, where she could feel the ache of her former bond with him. "Send Wilem back in, please," she said resignedly.

* * *

Thranduil fought the urge to drum his fingers on the slick black surface of the massive table that dominated the king's council chamber. The elders had been discussing the news of Maubûrz and the possibility of an attack from the east for more than an hour now. Truth be told, the king detested this room and its heavy furniture. The tapestries, he decided, were particularly horrid. Thranduil had arrived early to the room before any of the other members and took his place in the solid wood chair—not quite throne-like, but close—at the head of the table. He greeted each of the members as they reached their seats, took care to ask them about their families, their interests. Thranduil was all at once affable and disarming, and he deftly took control of the conversation in the room before the meeting even started.

He had let them have their run of discourse over the problems in Dale; he let them talk, and he listened carefully to each of their opinions and ideas. There were eleven members present in the room today; true to her word, Hûredhiel had opted not to attend. The council was a mix of the most important elves in his kingdom, some whom he trusted implicitly and others on whom he wanted to keep an eye.

He steepled his fingers and cleared his throat. "Council members, before our meeting adjourns, I have one more announcement." He waited until he had everyone's full attention, for their eyes to be trained on him.

He leaned forward, kept his voice conversational. "You may be the first to offer congratulations on my betrothal. I plan to remarry."

The room grew even more silent, if such a thing could happen. Possibly, several council members forgot to breathe, for more than a couple turned unflattering shades of red. It was so painfully quiet that Thranduil could hear the busy chatter of a few porters from far down the hall by the gallery.

Galadhor, his chief of staff, was the first to find his voice. "This is wonderful news, Your Majesty! Who is your intended?"

Thranduil smiled, appraising the room with his famously cool blue eyes. "One who is well-known and beloved in our kingdom, Lady Narylfiel."

More silence.

Rivenion, the same elf who had reprimanded Narylfiel for eating too much jam at breakfast, coughed. "Ahem, as in your ward, Lady Narylfiel? That younger sister of your son's wife?"

Thranduil smiled again, mirthlessly. "Yes, Lord Rivenion, the very one," he intoned, a small part of him enjoying the range of expressions on his council members' faces. "Lady Narylfiel has always been dear to me, and recent events have made me realize the depth of my feelings for her."

"She is a lovely young elleth, my lord," chimed in Almea, one of the three female members of the council. She smiled sweetly at her king. "Lady Narylfiel will need much direction and assistance socially, in order to take her place as your queen, preferably from a council member who has a wealth of experience in such matters."

Rivenion was not finished. "But King Thranduil," Lord Rivenion began, "surely Narylfiel is too young, too unqualified to be queen—"

"Not yet, perhaps," agreed Thranduil smoothly, "but I accept your offer of assistance in helping her to acclimate to the role."

Lord Rivenion sputtered, but he dared not contradict the king before the council. Such a move would be…unwise. The other council members glanced at each other warily. Pursing her lips, Almea shot Rivenion a dark look and then flicked her hair over her shoulder.

Across the table, Lord Filron plucked at the extravagant lace on his sleeve and beamed at his fellow council members. "Your majesty, if some of us were surprised by your news, I assure you we are equally delighted! This is most joyous news, especially in such dark and unhappy times." He placed a ring-covered hand over his heart. "Why worry about a gloomy war when there is a wedding to plan?"

"I plan on formally announcing our engagement at the Yule Feast," Thranduil told them, still gauging their reactions. By now, most of the council had replaced their usually dour expressions with degrees of facetious or genuine smiles.

Thranduil stood, signaling the end of the meeting. Yet before the council members could stir from their chairs, he spoke again and was sure to meet each member's eyes as he did so: "The Elder Council has ever been wise in all its doings. I trust that you will continue to display such wisdom and forethought as your bear the news of your king's engagement to your kinsmen. Your loyalty is noted and appreciated."

He was positive that he would be seeing visits from more than one council member in the next few days. The Elder Council shuffled out, each elf stopping to offer congratulations in varying levels of sincerity to the king, until only two members remained: Galadhor and Rivenion.

"King Thranduil, you cannot be serious!" Rivenion exclaimed.

"About which part?" Thranduil asked, "Marrying Narylfiel, or asking you to help prepare her?"

"Both!" replied Rivenion, his narrow face mottled red. "Lady Almea would be much more suitable—"

"King Thranduil trusts you, Rivenion," interrupted Galadhor. "You know and remember all the court customs, more than anybody." Rivenion was sharp-tongued, but he was also infinitely more trust-worthy than Lady Almea.

"Will you do this for your king and future queen?" Thranduil asked, meeting the elder's eyes.

Rivenion looked away first and sighed. "Yes, your majesty," he said and added under his breath, "Not that it will help in the slightest, I fear." He patted Thranduil on the shoulder and then quit the room. Both Galadhor and the king could hear his grumbling all the way down the hall.

Thranduil pushed his chair into the table and turned, noticing that his chief of staff had not left yet.

Galadhor smiled, a real smile, genuine, one that reached his eyes. "My king, you and Narylfiel?" He moved around the corner of the table and caught Thranduil in a hug. "I am happy for you both." He pulled away and frowned. "You might have told me before the meeting, you know. I was caught off guard as much as everyone else!"

"I am sorry for that, Galadhor," Thranduil said and frowned, "I should have told you, but I have had much on my mind, old friend. Narylfiel's not well."

"I had heard she was injured." Galadhor's merry expression faded. "What happened to her?"

"A difficult poison—it worries me, Galadhor," Thranduil dropped his voice, "more than I have let on to anyone. With war looming on our borders and Legolas out on some horrible quest for Elrond, the timing is terrible, but I want to forego the usual year engagement and marry Narylfiel as soon as possible."

"Because Narylfiel is not well?" his chief of staff asked concernedly.

The king wearily rubbed the side of his head just under his crown. "It's a long story, but—yes. I thought we could announce the betrothal at the Yule feast and then have a quiet ceremony."

Galadhor walked around the table, pushing in the remaining chairs as he went. "Normally, I don't put much store into anything Lord Gilron says, but your people will be expecting a wedding, Your Majesty." He tapped Gilron's chair as he passed it. "As much as I dislike admitting it, a big wedding and feast would do much for legitimizing Lady Narylfiel as your queen in the eyes of the court."

Thranduil crossed his arms. "You make a valid point. When did you have in mind?" As his long-serving chief of staff, Galadhor knew the logistics of pulling together such events. Thranduil may have liked to dabble with the menu and seating, or decorative things, but it was Galadhor who turned those details into action.

"What about Mereth Lotesse? A perfect time to signal new beginnings?" suggested Galadhor.

Thranduil walked to the door and looked back. "That is almost six months away—too long! Think about some other possible options to discuss tomorrow morning."

Galadhor was sharp enough to realize what Thranduil intended, which was Narylfiel might not last until the spring. He was well-read enough to remember the histories of other well-known elven couples, in which one spouse had sustained the other's life through their marriage bond, despite what should be almost fatal injuries.

The chief of staff watched his king leave and then headed for his own office, where he would pen a thoughtful letter regarding this issue to someone who had some expertise in the matter. His king would not like it, not in the slightest, but Galadhor ignored those little warning bells in his head and wrote the letter anyhow, sending it off before he could change his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Please Leave Kudos, Comment, and Bookmark/Subscribe! (Let me know that you haven't forgotten about Kingsfoil!)
> 
> Thranduil: I’m baaaack!  
> #ReturnofTHEking
> 
> Right. Well, this chapter opens up some more questions...Like did Narylfiel decide to donate some blood to Wilem? (Ew.) and Who is Galadhor writing that letter to?! And more importantly... How upset is Narylfiel going to be when Thranduil tells her that Rivenion is going to be giving her 'Queen Lessons'?
> 
> Lesson 1: Queens do NOT put a worrisome amount of jam on their toast at breakfast.
> 
> Narylfiel: #devastated #JamWithdrawal


	25. Diplomatic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Queen lessons do not go as planned...

_A Thousand Years ago…_

_Thranduil stopped slouching in his chair when Elarien came in looking for him in his study. Truth be told, she never sought him out, so he was more than a little surprised to see her._

_"Elarien, what brings you here?" he said, straightening up._

_She primly sat down across from him, folded her hands. "Thranduil, we need to talk."_

_He flicked his eyes over her, hated that he still found her so beautiful, so desirable. "I missed you last night at the dinner for the Elder Council," he said and reached for his glass of wine._

_"I am sorry," she said, plucking at the end of a long curl. She did not offer any explanations for her absence._

_"More than a few people asked after you," he prompted as he rose to refill his glass._

_"I want us to have a baby," she told him._

_He stilled at the sideboard, wine forgotten. When he finally found his voice, he turned and eyed her curiously. "What brings this on?"_

_"It's just time, don't you think?" She looked down at the ring, his ring on her hand. "Everyone expects us to."_

_Thranduil set the bottle down with a sharp crack. He smiled humorlessly. "Everyone as in your father?"_

_Her voice was timid. "He wants a grandchild, Thranduil."_

_Thranduil sat back down, leaned toward her. "No, what he wants is to secure his house's position in court, Elarien."_

_She nodded, and Thranduil thought he saw her lip quiver. "Well, I just thought that maybe we should try."_

_"Try," Thranduil echoed her. "You do know what that will involve, Elarien."_

_She reached forward and touched the left side of his face, ran her fingers from his cheek to his neck. "I am sorry for being so distant," she murmured. "It was just such a shock—your injuries—to see you that way when you came home from the war." She had not tended to him, would not be in the same room with him; of course, her father excused her actions to Thranduil by saying that his queen was too gentle to witness the atrocities of war._

_Her shallow excuses meant little to him, but Thranduil felt his bond with her pulse beneath her touch, and against his better judgment, he wanted her, needed her—even though he knew she was using him. A means to an end._

_He stood up and tugged her to her feet, pulling her against him. "Let's go then," he said, his eyes dark._

_"Now?" she squeaked._

_"Yes. Now," Thranduil said and led her to his chambers._

_This time things might be different. He needed to believe they would be. A fresh start. A baby. A family. Their fragile bond bloomed warm in his chest from the touch of her soft hand in his, and for the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to hope._

* * *

A fortnight before Yule

Clouds hung low over the trees by the practice field where Thranduil half-heartedly went through the motions of practicing with Althirn, one of his Royal Guards and one of the best swordsmen in the kingdom. He half suspected that Althirn knew he was distracted but was too polite to call him on it. Thranduil missed the old sword instructor from his youth, who was exacting, ruthless, and completely merciless.

"My lord, may I suggest a quick break?" Althirn requested and then barely waited for his king to nod before hurrying over to the side of the practice field where he had left his water skin.

Puzzled, Thranduil watched him go until he felt the sharp prick of a blade prodding him in the back. He moved enough to be out of the sword's reach and then turned, amusement playing in his eyes. "Here for a lesson, naurenniel?" he asked her, taking in her firm grip on her sword, which she charmingly still aimed at him, and the dangerous glint in her eyes.

She jabbed her sword toward his halls. "Why did Galadhor just inform me that I have Queen Lessons?"

Thranduil glanced around the field. No one paid them much attention. Yet. He and Narylfiel regularly sparred with each other in the past, although perhaps in better moods. "Let us go discuss this matter somewhere more private?" he suggested.

She angled her sword at him and narrowed her eyes. "Why didn't you tell me about this last night?"

Before she could move, Thranduil caught her blade with his own in a peal of metal scraping against metal. He forced her shorter sword down and leaned toward her. "I didn't want to worry you."

Narylfiel stepped back, disbelief on her face before her lips thinned into a tight line. "Worry me?" She swung her sword toward him again and waited.

Thranduil knew what she wanted.

He checked the next swing of her blade just hard enough to send her stumbling back. Narylfiel paused long enough to adjust her grip as she watched him out of the corner of her eye, her lips curving up into an almost smile.

She attacked first.

Thranduil blocked it.

Narylfiel spun away and swiped toward his side. She was in no way close to being the best swordsman in the guard, but she always fought to win, like she really might want to run him through.

Thranduil blocked her again and twisted away from another angled slash to his side. Ah, this was what he had been missing earlier in his practice with Althirn.

She advanced and then he pushed back.

It was push and pull, give and take, vicious and swift, and Thranduil's blood pounded as he met her strike for strike, blow for blow.

Until at last he knocked the sword from her hands.

He watched her pick it up from the frozen ground. Two bright spots stained her cheeks, but she still seemed paler than he would have liked. Thranduil motioned for her to follow him to one of the benches where there was a pitcher of water.

The dying light had most of the warriors packing up their weapons to return to their homes. The king poured her a cup of water, watched her take a sip.

"Rivenion agreed to help tutor you on your future role as queen," he said.

Narylfiel sprayed the water out of her mouth. "What? Why!"

Thranduil gracefully sat down on the bench, dabbed the droplets from his face with the edge of his cape. "I can think of a few minor areas, Narylfiel. Nothing to be upset about."

She sat down next to him with a huff. "Of course, I am upset. Why didn't you tell me this last night when we were alone?

He reached for her hands and warmed them with his own. "We were planning the Yule feast, and I don't know, you were just so happy. I didn't want to spoil the mood."

She pulled away, crossed her arms. "The mood of you slipping your hand under my—"

Thranduil interrupted. "I may have been wrong to keep it from you."

"May have been?" She arched an eyebrow at him. "And Rivenion? He does not like me, Thranduil. Not even a little bit."

"I know," he said. He reached his arm along the back of the bench and rubbed her shoulder. "But he is very influential. His support for our marriage would go a long way. Please try, naurenniel."

She sighed and stood up. "Best out of three? If I win, I don't have to go to queen lessons."

* * *

The next day.

Narylfiel pumped her legs, willing herself to go faster. Of course Rivenion had to choose a location on the opposite end of the king's halls. When at last she saw the door, she slowed her pace and took a moment to smooth her hair down before she entered the room.

"You are late," Rivenion said. He looked up from a small book and then quickly scratched something inside before snapping it shut.

"My apologies," Narylfiel replied. She had tried to sound sincere, but it came out sounding not very sorry at all. She would need to work on that.

"Let me make something very clear to you, young one," Rivenion said. His thin eye brows creased into a 'v.' "I am here at my lord's command. For reasons unknown to the Council, King Thranduil has decided to remarry…" he paused and pursed his lips as if the idea was distasteful, "you."

Narylfiel pushed her hair over her shoulder. "You could have said 'no.'"

Rivenion stood up and stuffed the book into an inside pocket of his robes. "As could you, Lady Narylfiel. You are very young, impetuous, smart-mouthed, ill-mannered, uncouth, and blindingly naïve."

She winced.

"But a fool, you are not," he said with an appraising look. "There are those on the council who would not wish to see a queen by Thranduil's side."

"Who?" Narylfiel asked, her mind already shifting through the possible members as her tutor walked over to her.

"If you cannot figure it out, then you are not nearly as perceptive as I first thought," Rivenion said. "First lesson: Always know who your friends and enemies are."

"And which would you be?" She lifted her eyes to meet his. "A friend?"

Rivenion sniffed. "I am here, aren't I?" He studied her for a second. "I was going to address this later, but it seems as though the matter requires more…immediate attention."

She reminded herself to check her temper, reminded herself that she promised Thranduil that she would try.

"Narylfiel, however much we might wish otherwise, appearances matter." Rivenion gently took her arm in his hand. "What is this unsightly bruising on the inside of your arm, young lady?"

Narylfiel pulled her arm away, tugged the fabric on her half-sleeves over her elbow to cover it up. "Oh, it's probably just a bruise from when I sparred with the king last night."

"I may be more of a scholar than a warrior, but I have a hard time believing that King Thranduil would be so careless as to mark his beloved in such a way," Rivenion pointed out.

"It's hardly worth fussing over. I've had much worse as a Forest Guard," Narylfiel said, rolling her eyes.

Rivenion snapped open his notebook, scrawled another note and then shoved it back into his robe pocket. He coolly walked over to the chamber's open door shut it gently and then turned. His eyes flashed.

"That is the problem with young people today! You don't believe anything is worth the fuss! Not your appearance and certainly not tradition!

Don't you think it's wrong that I should care more about how people see you as Queen than you do?"

Narylfiel caught herself mid-eye roll and bit her lip. She swallowed an angry retort and watched his face darken to an unpleasant shade of red.

"Queens do not roll their eyes, Lady Narylfiel! Queens do not run down the hall, or show up to meetings sporting bruises down their arms. This is NOT the Forest Guard, and King Thranduil will expect you to be an asset to him, not a liability." With a huff, he pulled out his notebook and scribbled another note, jamming the quill back in the inkpot on the table so hard that he splashed ink on the blotter.

Appearances," she bit off the word. "Does it matter at all to people what kind of person their Queen is on the inside—that I fought for our kingdom for many years or that I'm a kind or generous friend?"

"It won't matter what kind of person you are—if no one takes you seriously, Narylfiel. If they think you are a foolish child, it won't matter." Rivenion stared at her.

Narylfiel stared back. "Talk about foolish," she said. "This is degrading, Lord Rivenion. I have _never_ been a foolish child. You may be on the Elder Council, but I do not doubt that I know more about the goings on in the king's court than you."

Rivenion bristled. "Like what?"

Just then the door swung open. King Thranduil swept in, his eyes surveying the scene as though he expected to find carnage in the room. "Lord Rivenion, Lady Narylfiel," he greeted them. "I am pleased to see you working together."

The elf lord and young lady both forced smiles.

"King Thranduil, I was just impressing upon Lady Narylfiel the importance of making a good impression on her fellow courtiers," Lord Rivenion said, looking pinched.

"And I was just telling Lord Rivenion that I am not a child, nor an idiot," replied Lady Narylfiel, smiling sweetly at her king, although her eyes blazed.

"My lord," interrupted Rivenion, aghast at Narylfiel's words. "Lady Narylfiel is putting words in my mouth. I never insinuated such a thing!"

"Of course, you didn't," Thranduil said flatly. He lightly took Narylfiel by the elbow and steered her over to a corner of the room. "Diplomacy means presuming positive intent, Narylfiel. Like it or not, there are things that Lord Rivenion can teach you," he said quietly and pressed a kiss to the side of her head.

"But he thinks that I'm a silly child!" she hissed.

Thranduil smiled then. "Well, then you'll just have to disabuse him of that notion, won't you? Because like it or not, there are things that _you_ can teach Lord Rivenion."

"We are not done talking about this," she warned him.

His only answer was another infuriating smile. Narylfiel began to suspect that he was enjoying this. Thranduil quit the room then with a nod to Lord Rivenion, who promptly shut the door behind the king and then pressed his fingertips to his temple.

"Lady Narylfiel, it seems as though we are to be companions for a little while longer," he said carefully. "I would like our next meeting to be at Lady Almea's brunch tomorrow after next…and please, dress accordingly."

Narylfiel curtsied stiffly, visualizing all the ways she knew how to incapacitate an opponent. "I would be delighted, of course."

Rivenion took out his notebook and jotted down something else. Narylfiel imagined using same notebook for target practice.

And that was the cheerful end of the first day of Queen lessons.

* * *

Later that evening, Narylfiel found Thranduil in his throne room and waited for him to finish his audiences for the day. She watched him hear a petition for one of the royal smiths to accept a new apprentice; he denied a request from one of the scribes to travel to Rivendell; he listened to reports from the latest group of guards to return from the eastern rim. She watched him carry on all of these proceedings with dignity and grace, giving each matter his full attention and consideration.

Before he quit for the day, a family came to stand before him: a mother, father, and two younger elflings, a boy and a girl who shyly clung to the back of her mother's skirts. Narylfiel's heart broke for them, for she knew why they had come. She had seen the king grant this sort of audience before.

Thranduil descended from his throne, and thanked the father and mother for their son's service. Then Beriadan, captain of the guard, brought forth their son's sword, and King Thranduil presented it to the father. The mother crumpled into her husband's side, her shoulders shaking. Narylfiel looked away then, unwilling to intrude on the private moment any longer. She had known their son, Rissien; even though they had rarely served together, she remembered how strong he was, how he always had a quick grin and a willingness to help out.

She angrily swiped at her eyes and waited for Thranduil. She could still hear his low voice, resonant and soothing as he spoke with Rissien's parents. Then it was all finished. The family left with Rissien's sword and the king's gratitude, and Thranduil came through the side doors to find Narylfiel waiting for him.

He did not ask if she had knew of Rissien's death; she was sure he could see it on her face. Instead, he offered her his arm, she took it wordlessly, and together they left for the royal wing of the palace. They bypassed his study for the comfort of the shared sitting room with its already lit fire. Galion had left a tray for them of tea and some covered dishes from the kitchen.

"I'm not hungry," Thranduil said, sinking down onto the settee. He pulled his crown of evergreen leaves and red berries from his head and set it on the side table. Narylfiel sat down next to him and pulled the tray closer. She poured them both a cup of tea, which her king accepted but did not drink. Instead he held it for a minute and then set it back down on the tray, and closing his eyes, leaned back into the comfortable cushions of their seat.

"I watched you for a while today in the throne room," she said.

"Did you?" he asked. "How come?"

"I wanted to see you. Originally, I planned to pounce on you about the Queen lessons and really let you have it, but…" her voice trailed away, and he cracked open his eyes to look at her.

"—I forget sometimes that being king is a real job for you, and all that comes with it. You made all of those people that came for an audience with you feel like they mattered, that their problems were important."

"Because those things are important to them, and they do matter to me," Thranduil said and lifted his arm to drape it around her shoulders against the back of the settee. He hugged her to him, and she wondered if the pain lingering in his eyes was from the meeting with Rissien's parents, or his fears for Legolas, far away and in who knows what sort of danger.

She did not ask, and he did not say anything more for a long time that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please Comment, Leave kudos, and Bookmark/subscribe! I love hearing from you!
> 
> Narylfiel: #RivenionGoingDown #EyeRoll


	26. Strong

_Two hundred years ago..._

_Galion smiled from his position by the fireplace when he saw Lady Narylfiel bounce into the King's study. Thranduil had been particularly difficult earlier—nothing had pleased him! The tea had been too cool, then too milky, and he had decided that the bookshelf should be rearranged according to subject, rather than title. So the sudden appearance of Lady Narylfiel was a most welcome distraction indeed._

_The young elleth was not in the least bit put off by the King's glowering from his armchair. "King Thranduil, I have heard from a reliable source that you had finished early for the day," she said brightly._

_The king's eyes accused Galion from across the room._

_Wide-eyed, the butler shook his head and mouthed 'It wasn't me!'_

_The king turned his attention to Narylfiel. Bow in hand, with her quiver on her back, she had a determined look on her face. "Your majesty, would you like to come to the archery range with me?"_

_Thranduil shifted in his chair. He picked up his glass, and then sat it back down when he realized it was disappointingly empty. "Narylfiel, you should ask Legolas to go with you."_

_"He's busy," she said quickly, "and I really wanted to go with you. I wanted to show you how I can use my new bow."_

_Thranduil looked up. "A new bow? Already?"_

_She proudly showed it to him. "Well, it's obviously one of Legolas' old training bows. He said he didn't think I was strong enough to use it, but I've been pulling some extra training sessions to build up my strength." She grinned a little and flexed her arm._

_The king pushed himself out of his chair. "Impressive," he remarked. "I suppose I had better go see this," he told her._

_As King Thranduil followed her out the door, Galion heard him inform Narylfiel, "You know, if you can pull that bow, then you're stronger than Legolas was at your age." Narylfiel snickered and Galion was fairly certain he heard the king join in._

* * *

Three days before Yule, 3018 T.A:

Rivenion already had his little leather book open on the table when Narylfiel hurried into another deplorable session of queen lessons.

"Lady Narylfiel, please have a seat," he said and gestured to the chair across from him.

"Good morning, Lord Rivenion," she said, gritting her teeth in her attempt to sound pleasant.

His eyes flicked over her appearance: simple, but nice morning dress, hair shining and brushed, no bruises on her skin, a definite improvement. "You look much more well put together this morning, Lady Narylfiel, but you are very pale. Are you not sleeping well?"

Narylfiel pursed her lips. She really did not want to go into the details with this nosy busy-body. "I am still recuperating from my injury and the poison," she said stiffly. In truth, she did feel tired. She felt worn out—just from the long walk over to the other side of the palace to meet Rivenion. It was frustrating, to say the least, to Narylfiel who had always prided herself in her strength and athletic ability.

"I see," Rivenion answered and jotted down a note in his little book. "We'll keep today's meeting short then. I would like to discuss your responsibilities as queen. Of course, King Thranduil will ultimately decide, but you will be expected to take on a larger role in the running of the palace and household."

Narylfiel stifled a groan. "I would not want to impinge on any of Galadhor's domain, though," she said politely. Galadhor had been Thranduil's chief of staff for as long as she had lived there and ran the household and palace with precision.

"Galadhor may welcome the help, young lady. I am not saying that you will assume the running of the entire palace staff, but taking on a little more responsibility would serve you well," Rivenion said and thoughtfully steepled his fingers. "You need to gain the respect of Thranduil's court, but you also should invest your time in gaining the appreciation of his staff and servants."

"I have always spoken with kindness and appreciation to the servants and workers," Narylfiel insisted.

"I have heard that about you," Rivenion agreed, "but you also need to present yourself in an official—"

"—Excuse me?" Narylfiel interrupted him, frowning. "You heard what about me? So you've been going around asking about me to people, to the king's household staff?"

Rivenion actually had the gall to look pleased with himself. "Yes, of course," he said, not offering any excuses, "and I must say that I was pleased with what they had to say about you. Hardly a bad word was said."

Narylfiel was livid. "How dare you? Going around looking for the worst that people might say about me! And for what? To use as ammunition against me?"

Lord Rivenion looked aghast. "I hardly meant it in such a negative capacity, Lady Narylfiel. I was merely—"

Narylfiel abruptly stood up, the chair screeching across the floor as she did so. "We are finished," she said. The room spun for a second; she should not have stood up so quickly. She haughtily made her way to the door before Rivenion's words made her pause.

"They said you make the king happy."

Narylfiel turned and met his eyes.

"More than one person mentioned it," he said and cleared his throat. He shut his notebook with a sigh. "I have known the king for many long years. His first marriage, Queen Elarien—well, she was everything a queen should be: beautiful, graceful, elegant. But for all her loveliness and proud bloodlines, she was weak. The servants and palace staff despised her. She was cold and indifferent to them and their work…and she did _not_ make our king happy."

Narylfiel's eyes softened. "Which quality is the most important for a queen to have?" she heard herself say, although she dreaded his response.

"I had wondered should you ask me this, what my answer would be," Rivenion said, "And what's more important is what _you_ believe. We can discuss it in our next meeting."

"You just can't give me a straight answer, can you, Lord Rivenion," Narylfiel declared, but with much less vitriol than before.

Rivenion watched her leave and then smiled to himself.

* * *

Later that afternoon found Narylfiel with the seamstress for the final fitting on her gown for the Yule feast. Her friend Melui, from the Forest Guard, watched amusedly from the vantage point of Narylfiel's bed.

"That dress," Melui said, the corners of her mouth quirking up, "really goes beyond anything I've ever seen you wear, Narylfiel!"

Narylfiel surveyed the dark green fall of the skirt with its golden threads shot through the cloth. She swished the skirt a little, watching how the color of the gown seemed gold in one light and green in the next, before the seamstress tsked at her to stay still so she could finish pinning the hem. "It may be a gift from King Thranduil," she admitted.

Melui sat up and laughed. "I knew it," she crowed triumphantly. "He has the best taste in clothes!" She fiddled with the lavender throw blanket on the bed, smoothing out its tassels. "He has always spoiled you, Narylfiel."

"You know he and I have always been friends," Narylfiel corrected her, forcing a smile. She felt light-headed like she needed to sit down. Surely it was just a side-effect of the blood grass or some of that other fortified nonsense the healers had been making her drink. She put her hand out to the bedpost to steady herself.

Melui eyed her curiously. "You and he are good for each other. So your troubles from Dale are on the mend? Will he let you rejoin the Forest Guard?"

"No…" Narylfiel felt the room shift a little, like she was sinking down into the floor. She tightened her grip on the bedpost and eyed the progress on pinning the dress.

Thankfully, the seamstress stood up and announced that she had finished for the day.

"May I help you in removing the dress, my lady?"

When Narylfiel did not answer right away, Melui interjected, "No, that's quite alright." She hopped up from the bed. "I will help her. Thank you for your time today. The dress is lovely." She waited for the seamstress to leave before unlacing the back of the garment.

"Are you feeling well, Narylfiel?" Melui asked concernedly as she loosened the back of the gown. "You look a little…ill?"

"Are you saying my gown is not flattering?" Narylfiel tried to joke. "Let's sit down for just a moment." She plopped down on the edge of her bed with a sigh.

"Do I need to go get someone?" Melui asked. She started toward the door.

"No! No, I am fine," Narylfiel waved her off. "Well, not perfectly fine, but nothing worry over. Come sit down with me."

Melui eyed her critically. "If you are sure…" She frowned a little and returned to her friend's side. "I remember what that creepy healer said in Dale, Narylfiel. I was there, remember?"

"Wilem is not creepy," Narylfiel said defensively. "He just wants to help."

"I am not so sure about that," Melui muttered. "But you would tell me if something was really wrong, wouldn't you?"

Narylfiel looked down at her lap. She wondered if—

"—Wouldn't you?" Melui repeated herself.

"What?" Narylfiel looked up, and the room started to spin again.

"Honestly, Narylfiel! Are you even listening to me?" Melui demanded and then watched open-mouthed as her friend leaned forward and then slithered off the side of the bed in a crumple of gold and green.

"Narylfiel!" Melui gasped and sank to the floor next to her, tried patting her too-pale cheek. Her eyes were closed. Melui reached for a pillow from the bed and then shoved it under her head. "Hold on, I'll be right back."

Melui raced to the door, flung it open. "Help!" she cried down the hall of the royal wing. "Lady Narylfiel is sick!"

Before Melui could finish her second cry for help, Elfir had already reached the door and behind him, King Thranduil. His face seemed like a thundercloud as he passed her.

Both elves immediately knelt beside the young elleth, but it was the king who tenderly smoothed the hair away from her face. It was the king who picked her up and lay her down on the bed.

"Elfir, please go get Lady Hûredhiel," Thranduil asked, and then he turned the full force of his gaze on Melui. "What happened?"

"Your Majesty, she had just finished her dress fitting, and we were talking, and she looked a little pale, and then she fainted," she explained in a rush. But her eyes were drawn to the way King Thranduil gently took Narylfiel's hand in his own and felt for her pulse.

He stroked her cheek and called to her softly at first, and then more loudly, "Narylfiel. Narylfiel!"

Narylfiel's eyes shot open, and she inhaled sharply. Her eyes found Melui first at the foot of the bed, and then she noticed Thranduil leaning over her.

"What happened?" she asked meekly and then scrambled to sit up.

Thranduil gently pushed her back down. "I sent for Hûredhiel."

Melui patted her on the leg. "I was talking to you and you just sort of fell over, Narylfiel. Some good listener you are."

Narylfiel's mouth twitched. "My apologies."

Thranduil did not seem to be listening either. Instead he adjusted the pillows to prop Narylfiel up, reaching for a blanket to cover her, and then he noticed the dress. "You look beautiful," he whispered.

Melui bit her lip; her eyes dancing between Narylfiel and the king. "She was really excited about that gown, Your Majesty. Great choice—colors and all, I mean."

Narylfiel stirred impatiently. "I think I could go down to the healers' and see Hûredhiel. No need for her to—"

Thranduil interrupted, "She's already on her way." His mouth tightened into a thin line as he looked down at her. "I thought you told me you were feeling so much better."

"Well…" Narylfiel hedged in a small voice. "There have been times when I have felt better, and some when I feel worse."

"Valar, Narylfiel!" Thranduil snapped. "What about last night at dinner then? You hardly ate anything."

"I told you that some of those nasty tonics from the healers have taken away my appetite," she said, matching his tone.

Melui started backing away toward the bedroom door. "I'm just going to go now." Neither the king nor her friend heard her; they were too busy glaring at one another.

Thranduil folded his arms defensively. "Oh, sure, the tonics!" he scoffed, his voice getting louder with each word, "but you leave out the part about feeling dizzy all the time?"

Melui continued to creep toward the door.

Narylfiel's eyes blazed. "You don't have to be so angry. It's my health we're talking about here, not yours!"

"Of course, I'm angry, Narylfiel!" Thranduil all but shouted. "You cannot keep these sorts of things from me."

"I didn't want to worry you!" she exclaimed, thumping the pillow beside her with her fist.

Thranduil threw up his hands in frustration. His control had completely slipped. His face was a riot of hurt, and anger, and concern all at once. "It's too late for that, Narylfiel!" he yelled. "I'm already worried. I've been worried since Dale. I'm worried because I—love—you!"

From the doorway, Melui's mouth fell open. She watched as Narylfiel shakily pushed herself back up, blinking, her eyes wet.

"You never said…" Narylfiel whispered. "I knew that you did…but you never—"

Her words, soft and disbelieving, struck his heart and shamed him. Why had he not told her sooner how he felt in so many words? He leaned over and kissed her softly on the lips. "Of course I do. Narylfiel, how could I not?" He said softly, taking her hand in his and bringing it to his lips.

Melui cleared her throat. "The healers are here," she announced, not sure where she should look. "I'm just going to…I'll see you later."

Elfir came in through the door with Hûredhiel _and_ Wilem following close behind her, looking around the room with wide eyes. The royal guard immediately went to his king's side.

"Your majesty, Captain Beriadan requests that you come to the Great Hall as soon as possible," Elfir said with a pained look to be asking this of his king at such a time. "It's an urgent matter that you will want to address."

Thranduil's eyes drifted to Narylfiel. "I am sure that Beriadan can handle the situation without my presence," he said dismissively.

Then Elfir leaned in closer and whispered something to the king that had Thranduil straightening immediately and in the next second hurrying toward the door.

"Melui, please stay with Narylfiel," the Elvenking said as he passed by. Then he paused at the threshold and met his beloved's eyes from across the room. "I will return as soon as this little issue resolves itself. Please rest, Narylfiel. And try to eat something."

Melui sauntered back toward Narylfiel's bed, and despite her friend being ill, she could not contain the self-satisfied smile spreading across her face.

Narylfiel glared at her. "Later," she warned her.

Hûredhiel sat down on the edge of the bed, and Wilem awkwardly stood behind her. "Tell me about what happened," she said, feeling Narylfiel's forehead.

So Narylfiel described the dizzy spell, and concluded that she had been feeling out-of-sorts, a little light-headed off and on since their return to Dale, but had passed it off as a side-effect of her medicine.

Hûredhiel frowned as she reached into a small satchel that she had brought with her. "The blood grass tonic can cause drowsiness, but not to the point that you keel over mid-conversation. I am adjusting your dosage, Narylfiel. Even though the wound has healed, you are far too pale for my liking, and your temperature…" she tsked, "it hasn't improved." She pulled out a good-sized packet of the dried-powdered blood grass. "Mix two spoonfuls of this into a cup of water before bedtime and in the morning after you eat breakfast."

With a grimace, Narylfiel accepted the packet and handed it to Melui, who took it over to her dressing table. She glanced at Wilem. "Have you made any improvements to your remedy?"

Wilem looked up from the slim journal in his hand, where he had been jotting down a few notes as he listened to Hûredhiel check over Narylfiel. He shook his head, his eyes pained. "No, my lady. You probably have already heard about the most recent death of one of the Forest Guards. The antidote did not save him."

"Rissien?" Narylfiel looked over to Hûredhiel for confirmation. "He was poisoned?"

The healer paused and leaned over to pick up her bag. Her mouth was grim when she turned to meet her young patient's eyes. "The king did not wish for you to know."

Narylfiel ignored the mention of Thranduil and smoothed the blanket across her lap. "And nothing could be done for him?"

Huredhiel snapped her satchel shut and gave Wilem a cool look before answering. "No, it was too late by the time they brought him in." She hesitated and then added, "He had been very badly injured, Narylfiel."

Narylfiel's hand drifted to the tender area below her ribs where the orc's blade had pierced her side. "But the antidote was not enough." Her voice hitched as she remembered the scene she had witnessed in the throne room. Thranduil. Rissien's father clutching his son's sword.

"Lady Narylfiel, I do feel like I have greatly improved on the antidote's restorative powers," Wilem chimed in. "If I could draw more of your blood to test it—"

Hûredhiel cut him off, "No, absolutely not. She is weak enough as it is."

Melui looked aghast. "More of her blood? Narylfiel, please tell me that you did not give your blood to this creature."

Narylfiel ignored Melui. "I am afraid I have to refuse, Wilem. I dare not go against Hûredhiel's advice this time." She offered them both a small smile and attempted to lighten the mood. "Besides, I can hardly afford to have any more bruises on my arm, not with the Yule feast in three days."

Wilem perked up. "Hûredhiel has invited me to attend as her guest, and I must say that I am looking forward to seeing such a celebration."

Hûredhiel smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. "Wilem, if you would excuse us for a moment?"

The man nodded and smiled brightly. "Of course! I will just return to the healing wing," he said and excused himself.

The lovely healer watched him leave and sighed. Then she felt her patient's forehead again, and picked up her hand, checked her pulse. "I want you eating more red meat, Narylfiel. You need to build your strength back up. More leafy greens."

Her patient nodded obediently.

Hûredhiel lowered her voice and turned Narylfiel's hand over in her own. "I did not want to speak of this in front of Wilem." Her eyes drifted over to Melui leaning against the bedpost at the foot of the bed.

"You can speak freely in front of Melui. She knows," Narylfiel said tiredly.

Melui beamed at them.

Hûredhiel nodded. "I'll get to the point then. How much time are you spending with the king lately?"

"Not as much time as I would like…" Narylfiel's cheeks grew hot. "We usually spend the evenings together. It seems to help—I'm not sure why, but it just does." She thought of the long nights they had spent together, cocooned in her bed, the feel of his arms holding her close.

The healer nodded, a hint of a smile on her lips. "I spoke of this with King Thranduil when you first returned to Dale. He was convinced of some sort of bond lingering between you. That bond may have done much in the way of sustaining you." She gave Narylfiel's hand a motherly pat. "The king has been down to visit me more times in the past three weeks to ask about you than he has in the past three hundred years."

Narylfiel's eyes widened. "Oh, I didn't know," she said curiously, "and what will you tell him if he comes again?"

Hûredhiel's eyes were sympathetic. "The truth, Narylfiel. The light of the Eldar is leaving you. The poison somehow weakened your feä. It's slowly draining your hroä, your health. I will advise Thranduil that he needs to forego propriety and bond with you—the sooner, the better! I fear that if your feä weakens too much, he might not be able to bond with you at all."

Narylfiel was fairly certain that her whole face was as red as the berry jam of which she was so fond. "Well, I suppose as cures go, I certainly can't complain?"

Hûredhiel laughed then and gently patted the young elleth's shoulders before she walked to the door. "Definitely a more welcome prospect than Wilem's leeches," she teased.

Narylfiel waited until the door closed again before pulling the blanket off and sitting up. Before Melui could unload her slew of probably a thousand questions, Narylfiel put her hand up. "I promise I will tell you everything that has happened—if you help me take this dress off. All those little pins keep poking me." She gingerly stood up, and her friend, still grinning, helped her out of the gown and then brought her a robe.

Together they sat down across from each other on the bed. Melui, leaning forward eagerly and Narylfiel with her legs tucked up under her, a blanket draped around her shoulders.

"Remember back in the Forest Guard, on those nights when we would keep watch and I used to talk to you about the elf that I admired, the one who was older and superior?" Narylfiel started the conversation.

Melui's eyes widened. "And you would never say who it was…that was King Thranduil?"

"It has always been Thranduil for me," Narylfiel said quietly. "I've always loved him."

"No wonder you never acted on your feelings," Melui said understandingly, and a bit in awe. She reached over to squeeze Narylfiel's hand. "I don't blame you for keeping a secret. King Thranduil." She blinked and shook her head. "What changed?" She pointed toward the door. "Because he obviously adores you."

Narylfiel hesitated and then smiled. "Our first night in Dale, he inadvertently saw a dream-memory of mine when he opened up a healing bond between us."

"—Must have been some kind of dream!" Melui interjected.

Narylfiel grinned to herself. "Oh, it was. And Thranduil saw all of it. I was never so embarrassed than when he confessed he had seen it the next morning."

"I still cannot believe we are even having this conversation," Melui said, "about King Thranduil. And you, Narylfiel. You kissed King Thranduil. I just can't believe it." She fell back onto the bed and covered her face with a pillow.

After a few seconds ticked by, Melui removed the pillow from her face and sat back up. "Oh, Valar!" she exclaimed. "If…if…Hûredhiel said…and you have to…with the king!" She squeaked and then looked intently at her friend. "Narylfiel, that will make you the Queen?"

Narylfiel nodded, a bit glumly. "Not my favorite aspect of this whole deal. I am in no way close to being queenly."

"Nonsense," disagreed Melui. "Think about it, Narylfiel. A Silvan queen, one of us—and someone who served and protected our lands in the Forest Guard? You are so strong and loyal—you're perfect."

"I am not so sure," Narylfiel said, thinking of her last meeting with Rivenion.

"When will your engagement be announced? When will you wed?" Melui could hardy contain her excitement. She peered at Narylfiel's hand. "You don't even have a ring!" she squawked.

Narylfiel laughed, her mood brightening. "We were planning on announcing our engagement at the Yule feast, but as for the wedding—I don't know. I'm sure Thranduil will find me an appropriate ring by then."

Melui delightedly rubbed her hands together. "I cannot wait. Yule cannot get here fast enough."

"I still can hardly believe it myself," Narylfiel owned, mulling over Hûredhiel's words.

"I am surprised King Thranduil left you alone," Melui pointed out. "Based on that lovely shouting match I just witnessed, he seems a wee bit over-protective. What could have had him rushing off like that?"

Narylfiel snorted at the 'wee bit over-protective' statement. She would consider herself fortunate if he did not start over-seeing her daily medicine himself. Whatever situation in the Great Hall had him hurrying away, it must have been serious. She had watched his expression when Elfir had whispered to him. He had looked horrified. She had seen that look before…in Dale. "Oh, I can think of at least one thing that would have him hurrying down there," Narylfiel said gleefully. "Dwarves."

"Dwarves!" Melui exclaimed. "Whatever for?"

Narylfiel smirked, already picturing Thranduil's horror, if she was indeed correct. "Whatever their reason, this Yule just got more interesting."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Could it be that Dwarves have arrived to crash Thranduil's Yule AND Engagement party? Oh, the horror!
> 
> Thranduil: #DwarfPanic #No #MakeItStop #CallTheExterminator


	27. Hesitant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil worries about his beloved’s condition, and the dwarves make charming dinner guests...

_Three Thousand Years ago…_

_Every elf in the Woodland Realm knew that King Oropher and his son, Prince Thranduil, adored the Yule season, and the big Yule feast at the palace was the highlight of every elf's holiday celebrations. Of all the elven feasts and gatherings, Yule might just be Thranduil's favorite time of the year. He loved the snow and icicles that frosted the treetops through the forest. He liked climbing to the top of the domed rock above his father's halls and seeing the tree canopy over the forest shimmer like a sea of white starlight. And most of all, Thranduil loved the traditions of the Yule festivities: the rich green fir fronds and red berries that scalloped down the halls with bright ribbons, the bakers churning out any number of treats, the glad songs thanking Iluvatar for the blessings of another year, and without a doubt, the exchange of gifts, the choosing of something elegant or memorable for those he cared about most._

_Naturally, Thranduil had already given much thought to the majority of his gifts when Oropher instructed him to choose one more. His father informed him that he would be most attentive to Lady Elarien at this year's Yule feast. Thranduil should also take care to choose her a gift worthy of her status and suggestive of the prince's intent of courtship._

_Thranduil had balked at the idea considerably, but Oropher would not be dissuaded, and no amount of stomping around, whining, or other non-princely behaviors would move him on the matter. So Thranduil resolved to do his worst and hope for the best, which, in his mind, was that she would not be the slightest bit interested in him._

_He found her at the Feast relatively quickly and offered her an elegant box tied with a dark green bow. "Lady Elarien, please do me the honor of accepting my gift," he told her, in what he hoped was a very charming voice._

_Lady Elarien looked amused as she peeled the thin paper away, opened the lid. The prince had given her a single white bud. She knew well what it was, a snowdrop blossom, and the difficulty he must have had in procuring it. "Look, I know what you are trying to do," she said, tucking the flower behind her ear, "and I am very flattered."_

_Thranduil had not been expecting that sort of response. "What am I trying to do?"_

_"Court me, woo me, sweep me off my feet?" she said and inclined her head. "Your father and my father—they're not nearly so sly as they think they are."_

_"My apologies," Thranduil murmured. "Would you mind terribly if I asked you to sit with me during the dinner?" He, after all, had to keep up appearances for Oropher's benefit._

_"Of course, we must!" she said with a laugh that sounded a bit hollow to his ears. "You must understand, Prince Thranduil, that you are not the only one feeling the burden of a father's expectations." She took his arm, her eyes finding her father's in the sea of people across the dance floor, and she made a show of smiling brightly at the Prince._

_"So you're not that interested…?" Thranduil heard himself say as she began to pull him through the crowd._

_She gauged him with merry eyes, framed by the darkest lashes he had ever seen. "Of course, I'm interested, Prince Thranduil! You are the prince, are you not? But you'll find that I'm terribly direct and not entirely romantic."_

_"You are. You're not?" Thranduil could hardly keep up with what she was saying, but he noticed how her hair fell past her waist in long curls the color of winter grass._

_She stopped suddenly. They were surrounded by a crush of other elves, singing and laughing, some dancing, and Elarien pulled him in closer to her. "I just realized I haven't give you anything," she said with a laugh. Then she pulled him in closer, and Thranduil realized she had stopped under an arch, where mistletoe hung, and before he knew her intentions, her lips were on his, soft and teasing. It was all over as quickly as it happened, and she laughed again at the stunned expression on his face. Thranduil had never kissed any maiden before that fateful night. She grabbed his hand and led him onward through the crowd, and Thranduil would remember that particular Yule as the first time he foolishly believed himself to be in love._

* * *

Three days before Yule, 3018:

Thranduil grimaced to himself as he finally left the Great Hall after seeing to his…guests. Four filthy dwarves, including that insufferable Prince Thorin and the accusatory bald one-he couldn't be bothered with remembering his name, and now they were here in his halls, pretending to be interested in the cure for the poison which Wilem was supposedly working on. They claimed that another of their warriors had been poisoned and died, but Thranduil was not entirely convinced. You just couldn't trust a dwarf.

It could be every bit as likely that they were out for mischief. He did not trust that son of Dain, that Prince Thorin. Thranduil stopped mid-stride as a thought occurred to him. He would need to tell Galadhor to secure the royal vaults. There was no possible way he would let those height-challenged interlopers near his treasury. He smiled to himself as he thought of the great storeroom, lined with shelves full of jewels and coin; he had just been through there earlier to look for a Yule present for Narylfiel. She would need a ring for their engagement announcement, and honestly, he was delighted at the chance to give her something, something sparkly and beautiful, so he could watch her eyes light up when she opened her gift. She had never been one much for wearing jewelry, Thranduil thought, but perhaps that was in part from her being a Forest Guard. As his queen, she might feel more favorable toward the idea.

Thranduil turned toward the royal wing of the palace, stopping only briefly to direct one of the guards to tell Galadhor about locking up the vaults. He would take a few minutes to check in on Narylfiel, just to reassure himself that she was faring better and to hear what Hûredhiel had to say.

From her doorway, Thranduil hesitated. He could see that the fire in her room had burned down to flickering coals, and Narylfiel was asleep in her bed. Her eyes were closed, he realized with dismay as he walked closer to her bedside. He picked up her hand from on top of the coverlet. She still felt cool to his touch, and he leaned over the bed and placed a kiss on her cheek.

"Your Majesty!" Melui had just startled awake from hearing someone enter the room. She had fallen asleep in the chair by the fireplace, and now she leapt to her feet and bowed her head before her king.

"Melui," Thranduil said, also a little surprised, for he had not noticed her earlier. "Thank you for staying with Narylfiel. I am sure your presence was a comfort to her."

"You are most welcome, Your Grace. I did not want her to be alone…just in case," Melui said.

"What did Lady Hûredhiel say?" Thranduil asked, with a tender yet worried glance at the elleth beside him. He still held onto Narylfiel's hand in his own.

Melui shifted uneasily before the king. "Oh, King Thranduil, I am sure Narylfiel would want to share the news with you herself."

Thranduil gently placed his beloved's hand back on her blanket and folded his arms. "But I am most concerned for her and would like to be told now what the healer said."

Melui bit her lip and looked down, and then looked at Narylfiel. "Please, Your Grace. I only hesitate out of concern for my friend, that she would wish to tell you the news herself."

The Elvenking scowled.

"Melui, of course your king would never ask you to betray your friend's trust," he told her, eyes narrowing, "but I think you know that I care for Narylfiel deeply. I greatly desire to hear what Lady Hûredhiel said."

"Err…" Melui stalled, clasping her hands together in front of her. King Thranduil's presence just rattled her so. He was so tall, looming over her, and she could scarcely think straight to remember all the other things the lady healer had said. There was no way, positively no possible way, that she would tell the Elvenking about the bonding. None. "Well, she said at last, smoothing down her sleeve across her wrist to avoid eye contact. "Lady Hûredhiel changed Narylfiel's medicine dosage to twice a day."

"Is that all?" said the king archly.

"No," squeaked Melui. "She, eh, told her to eat more red meat and healthy greens to build up her strength…and rest, I think?

"Thank you, Melui," Thranduil eyed her carefully for a second. "Narylfiel is fortunate to have you for a friend. She has spoken about you many times."

Melui bowed her head in deference and then looked up to meet his eyes for the first time since he entered the room. "Thank you, my lord. You are most gracious to say so."

Thranduil inclined his head politely and then dismissed her. When she was almost halfway out the door, he called to her again. "Melui? If it pleases you, speak to Captain Beriadan about transferring to the Royal Guard. Narylfiel will need an attendant, a handmaiden. I would prefer someone that could also serve as a guard, a friend she knows and trusts."

Melui's eyes widened and her mouth fell open slightly. "Yes, your grace. I am honored." She quickly bowed, heart pounding, and left the room, unsure if she could handle a position that might require run-ins with the king on a regular basis.

Thranduil immediately sunk into a most unkingly slouch in the chair next to the side of the bed as soon as the door closed. He was exhausted, more than a little concerned that Narylfiel's health was failing her, and to top it all off, he had to play host to dwarves from Erebor. He really wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed with her, hold her against his chest and stay there until dawn. He scooted the chair closer to the side of the bed, close enough that he could hold her hand while she slept.

He curled his fingers around hers and his mind briefly flitted back to when he had watched her that first night in Dale, when he had barely been able to fathom that she might love him.

He softly squeezed her hand, and her eyes fluttered, then opened.

"What time is it?" she asked and yawned.

"Late," Thranduil said. "You should rest. I just came into check on you."

"I am alright," she said, "just a little embarrassed over fainting like a ninny in front of Melui."

"She understands," he said and patted her hand comfortingly. "She is worried about you too. Melui was still here sitting with you when I came in."

"Oh, am I a wretched friend," Narylfiel said. "Poor Melui, having to sit with me all evening."

"It was her choice," Thranduil said. "She's protective of you. She would hardly even tell me, her king, what the healer said about you."

Narylfiel's eyes darted to his. "What _did_ she say?" she asked with a mix of dread and curiosity. Oh, poor Melui!

"She told me that Hûredhiel changed your medicine and instructed you to each more red meat and leafy greens," said the king. "Did she leave out something else that I should know?"

Ah, here was the moment. Narylfiel had worried over telling Thranduil about that the healer had said—not so much the content of said message, but the actual telling of the message. She did want to marry him, to bond with him—she wanted it more than anything, but these were decidedly awkward circumstances to say the least.

She plucked up her courage. "Yes, there was something else that Huredhiel said. I don't blame Melui for not telling you." She shook her head. "It was so awkward, Thranduil."

"What?" he asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

Narylfiel covered her face with her hands for a minute to cool her cheeks, which she was sure if they weren't burning already, they would be in a matter of seconds. When she moved her hands back into her lap, she looked her best friend in the eye, her king, her beloved. "Hûredhiel fears that my fëa has grown weak, that I am starting to fade. She thinks…" her voice trailed away. Her nerves failed her.

Thranduil took over. "What do you mean, you might be fading?" His voice grew sharp.

Narylfiel straightened up against her pillows. "Don't snap," she fired back tiredly. "I am trying to tell you."

"Then tell me," he said. "I am trying to be patient here."

"Ugh," she groaned. "You are not making this any easier. I—"

Thranduil cut her off again, only this time he leaned forward and kissed her, his arm sweeping around the back of her neck to pull her close. "I'm sorry," he said. "It's my fault. I have worried about you ever since I left, and then I had to deal with a pack of dwarves. You know my tendency to overreact occasionally."

Narylfiel's eyes burned and she swallowed hard. This was so unlike her. She was not going to start crying. She was not some weepy elleth. She might be sick, but she had her pride. "Hûredhiel is concerned that I'm losing my strength, that I might be fading." She waved off Thranduil's alarmed look.

"I am going to go and talk to her right now."

Narylfiel caught his hand. "Don't," she said and looked at him imploringly. "I do not want you to leave." She pulled him back toward her, pressed her lips to his fingers. "Please, just stay with me?"

Thranduil's eyes went to the door and then back toward the elleth holding his hand. He was beginning to have a more difficult time telling her 'no.'

"Of course, I will," he said, and this time he did not return to the chair beside her bed, but climbed into the covers beside her, opening up his arms and pulling her against the warmth of his tunic.

Narylfiel did not get around to mentioning the other part of Hûredhiel's advice, which was that she and Thranduil should reestablish their bond together. Because she knew what he would say, what he would do. And as much as Narylfiel wanted to be with him, the last thing she wanted was for them to be bound together out of desperation or worse, sympathy.

* * *

Two days before Yule…

The dwarves of Erebor were having a perfectly miserable time. Of the four visiting the Elvenking's halls, Prince Thorin was the most vocal about how much he detested the elves and their ways. His father had decided that he should stretch his diplomatic muscles. Since Thorin's unfortunate meeting in Dale with King Thranduil and subsequent agreement that Erebor, Dale, and the Woodland Realm should work together, Dain decreed that Thorin was just the dwarf to ensure that the elves were upholding their end of the agreement. Thorin stroked his beard thoughtfully as he stalked through the twisting halls toward where the healing chambers supposedly were. Beside him, Dwalin huffed. Again.

Behind Thorin and Dwalin, Bofur suggested: "I think we passed by this way already. We took a wrong turn again."

Dwalin huffed. Again. He was not pleased at being appointed as lead council to the prince for this particular endeavor. He adored Prince Thorin, but he greatly disliked the elves, always had, and this trip was just really too much. Cursed elves and their penchant for twisty passages that all seemed to connect in nonsensical ways. A dwarf would know better.

From behind, Bofur tried again: "Maybe we should stop and ask someone."

Both Thorin and Dwalin turned around to glare at Bofur and poor Dori, who had yet to speak.

"I'm not asking anything of an elf!" declared Thorin, his eyes darting around the hall to see if any elves were even in the vicinity.

It was just at this time that Narylfiel crossed their paths. She recognized Bofur immediately as the friendlier dwarf that had spoken to her during her visit to Erebor. He waved to her and she stopped happily to greet him.

"Why, hello!" She said and tucked her packet of medicine from the healers' into the bag on her shoulder. She, of course, also acknowledged Prince Thorin and Dwalin, both of whom were quite familiar to her after their numerous encounters in Dale; she had not forgotten their curious looks.

"Lady Narylfiel, I am glad to see you looking so well," Bofur said. "I had hoped we might see you again. Please meet our other companion, Dori."

Dori nodded a shy greeting. He still was not one much for discourse, especially in front of lovely elven maidens.

Narylfiel grinned. "I am most pleased to see you all. I had hoped to see you at the king's table this morning for breakfast?"

Prince Thorin cleared his throat and answered for them. "We did not want to inconvenience anyone."

"Not at all," Narylfiel said, her eyes merry. "I would like very much to see you join us for luncheon today. I happen to know that the cooks are preparing a rich venison stew—it's one of my favorites."

The dwarves exchanged looks with each other, and Dwalin fixed her with a curious look. "Venison stew? With actual meat? Not just that green leafy nonsense?"

Narylfiel chuckled. "Oh, I'm sure there will be plenty of green leafy nonsense to go around," she said, thinking of Hûredhiel's diet, "but the venison stew is definitely on the menu. I heard the king ask the head cook for it this morning at breakfast."

From behind Bofur, Dori seemed favorably impressed. "I am sure your king sets a lovely table," he said, with a hopeful look at young Thorin.

Thorin gave his companions a dark look. "We will be delighted, of course." His tone suggested anything but.

Narylfiel smiled then and clasped her hands together, looking so sweet and merry that it was hard for Bofur and Dori not to smile along with her.

"Now, where were you heading this morning?" she asked them.

Thorin and Bofur both answered at the same time.

Thorin: "Dwarf business."

Bofur: "To visit the healers!"

"Oh," said Narylfiel, "I was just coming from there. I can show you the way, if you'd like?"

Before Thorin could answer, Dwalin gruffly replied: "If it's no problem, miss."

"Certainly not!" Narylfiel answered as she started to lead them in the right direction. "I remember thinking how all these tunnels and paths were like a maze when I first moved to the Elvenking's Halls."

Bofur and Dori fell into step beside her. "You haven't lived here your whole life?"

"Oh, no!" laughed Narylfiel. "I moved here when I was still an elfling, when my sister married Prince Legolas."

Dwalin stopped mid-track with a startled noise that sounded like a cross between a wheeze and a gasp. Narylfiel, Bofur, and Dori stopped, turned to see what was the matter.

Dwalin shrewdly eyed Narylfiel. "Wait just a minute… Your sister married Prince Legolas, the king's son."

"Yes," Narylfiel answered slowly, her smile wavering. She knew where this was going.

Dwalin continued with a side glance at Thorin, "But you and the king are…ahem…together?"

"Yes," she said with a slight tilt to her head.

"Elves…" muttered Thorin, as if the single word explained everything he felt was wrong with the situation.

* * *

Later that day, Thranduil politely nodded at his companions as he folded his napkin from the head of the table in the Royal Dining Room. His lips curled ever so slightly at the sight of the four empty chairs at the opposite end of the table.

"It appears," he said amusedly, "that our honored guests will not be joining us for luncheon today."

Steam rose headily from the bowl of hearty venison stew in front of Narylfiel, but she half-heartedly picked up her spoon. She could feel Thranduil's eyes scrutinizing her earlier as she entered the room and sat down a few seats from him. If she was not careful, the next thing she knew he would be cutting her meat for her. As it stood already, the kitchen staff had seemingly loaded her bowl full of what seemed like a double portion of meat. Narylfiel knew exactly who to thank for the gesture. She looked up from her bowl and met the king's eyes briefly. As much as she loved venison stew, her stomach roiled at the smell, and she was a little disappointed that the dwarves had decided not to attend the meal. With Thranduil watching, she loaded up her spoon, lifted it to her lips, and was about to take a bite when her attention went to the doorway.

Thorin and his three companions had just clambered into the dining room. All four had taken special care with their appearance, each sporting well-groomed beards and immaculate tunics with hints of gold gleaming at their belts and on their fingers. Dori and Bofur's eyes lit up at the lavish spread on the table, and even Dwalin looked suitably impressed.

"We are most pleased that you could join us," the Elvenking said, even though he looked like he had just swallowed his stew down the wrong way.

"You are most gracious," Prince Thorin replied as he sat down, but his eyes darted suspiciously around the room.

An uncomfortable pause ensued until the dwarves had been brought generous servings of the venison stew and salads, which were summarily ignored, and then quiet conversations resumed around the tables in the room. Many a curious eye stole a glance at the dwarves, who ate their stew with gusto, making quite the show of licking their fingers and burping. For in dwarvish culture, such behavior is naturally understood as a great compliment to the cook and host.

Only the elves of the Woodland Realm understood little of such customs and hardly knew which way to look. They folded their napkins primly in their laps, taking delicate sips from their spoons, and occasionally checked over their shoulders to see the expression on their Elvenking's face, which alternated between combinations of horror, disgust, and self-pity.

After a particularly drawn out belch from Dwalin, which earned him a clap on the back from Bofur, who exclaimed "Good one!," Lord Rivenion politely inquired if the meal was to their liking.

Dori politely dabbed his mouth with his napkin. He had been paying attention to how the elf lord across from him used it, and answered first, "Oh, yes. Lady Narylfiel could not have been more right about the fine nature of this stew."

Beside him, Bofur nodded happily. "We thought elves only ate leaves and carrots and such."

Lord Rivenion's eyes drifted down the table to where Lady Narylfiel smiled back at the dwarves. "Oh? But Lady Narylfiel took it upon herself to inform you otherwise?"

"Well," Bofur answered, gesturing with a roll in hand, "she's a fine lass. We met before, you know in Erebor when she was there, staying with your king."

"Yes, and then I had the pleasure of making her acquaintance in Dale," added Thorin, "but I was surprised to learn that she was the sister of Prince Legolas' wife?" He smiled benignly at the table. "Elvish customs are so different from my people. Is it common for elves to intermarry between families?"

Rivenion shifted uncomfortably. "I'm not sure I understand your question," he said, his eyes worriedly darting to Narylfiel and then King Thranduil.

"Lady Narylfiel is King Thranduil's intended, is she not?" Thorin said innocently. "They shared a room together in Erebor and then again in Dale. In dwarvish culture, they would have to marry first, so I assumed King Thranduil would marry Lady Narylfiel?"

Gasps could be heard from every table in the room.

Narylfiel fought the urge to sink down in her seat. Her ears burned and all she could do was stare at her bowl of stew. She dared not look up. Oh, she could have happily dumped the bowl over Thorin's head at the moment.

Thranduil smiled thinly. "We planned on announcing our official engagement at Yule feast," he told the dwarves and every single elf now listening to the head table. "I'm sure you will be well on your way back to Erebor by then?"

Dwalin spoke up: "Prince Thorin would be honored to attend your festivities, but King Dain will be expecting him to return to the mountain before then." Bofur and Dori both eyed each other with relief.

Thorin, however, watched the Elvenking visibly relax at Dwalin's polite refusal, and the prince's mouth curled into a self-satisfied smirk. "No, we would be delighted to attend. I am sure my father can spare us for a few more days."

The older dwarf's mouth tightened into an unhappy line and he thumped the prince in the ribs below the table line. "But Prince Thorin, what about our other commitments?"

"We will just have to make our apologies!" Thorin declared, eyeing the Elvenking's stony countenance with glee. "As official representatives for King Dain, we can hardly miss the opportunity to attend such an important occasion to our elven neighbors."

"Well then, it's settled!" declared Narylfiel. She had decided to take charge of the situation, after noting that Thranduil had gone rather pale. "You will certainly be glad of attending. I am quite sure you will have never beheld such a gathering."

"Oh, we have attended a few elvish parties when we were guests at Rivendell so long ago," Dori offered. "They were very nice." Nice and boring.

Narylfiel made herself smile. "Oh, I think we may surprise you, my lords. After all, this is Yule, and you are in the Woodland Realm, as honored guests of the Elvenking." She gave Thorin a calculated look. "Since you are _so_ interested in our Elvish customs, you will, of course, wish to join in all the festivities." She folded her napkin and smiled sweetly at the dwarf prince.

Thorin did not offer any more conversation during lunch that day.

Further down the table, Narylfiel attacked her stew with a new sense of vigor. Under her king's watchful eye, she made herself eat every morsel, down to the last drop. She would need both her strength and her wits about her to make sure Yule was a success this year and that the dwarves were distracted to the point that they would be a non-issue. She smirked a little as she waited for dessert. She would make sure Thorin learned _all_ about Elvish culture.

And somehow in the midst of Yule, entertaining dwarves, and having her engagement to the King of the Woodland Realm announced, Narylfiel knew that she would have to speak with Thranduil about what Hûredhiel said. They needed to bond, sooner rather than later. Narylfiel's heart turned over a little at the thought and she stole a glance at Thranduil at the head of the table. He looked incomparable in his dark blue tunic with the open collar, his starry circlet atop his head, and she thought back to last night. He had stayed with her when she asked; he had held her in his arms until she had fallen asleep again. She loved him so much—she really did.

But if she was being truthful with herself, she knew why she was hesitant to speak with him about bonding. Theirs was not the typical romance or courtship—there had not even been any courtship! Or a ring, not that she cared that much about jewelry, but the idea behind it? And Thranduil had not even told her he loved her until he had shouted it across the room at her. Perhaps she was being a little silly—he was the king, for crying out loud!—but a little part of her feared that his role in this came from a sense of honor on his part, or worse, obligation! She wished he would at least attempt some sort of romantic gesture. Perhaps it was different with them because they had been friends first. He naturally felt comfortable with her. He knew she loved him, but he had been hurt in the past. Narylfiel sighed and picked her up her fork again to poke at her dessert.

Maybe she was looking at this in the wrong way. Maybe he was a little hesitant too. She just couldn't be sure, Narylfiel told herself; the last thing she wanted was for him to be pressured into another marriage that he didn't really want, and that alone was reason enough for her not to speak to Thranduil about Hûredhiel's advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear! Those meddling dwarves stirring up more problems for Thranduil and Narylfiel! Next chapter: Yule, in which many things do NOT go according to plan...
> 
> Thranduil: #UnwantedHolidayGuests #WhyMe?
> 
> Narylfiel: #RevengeIsSweet #ThorinGoals
> 
> Please Comment, Subscribe/Bookmark, and Leave Kudos!


	28. Festive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil goes to a party.

_Yule, 3017:_

_Thranduil thought he might just be a little drunk. He had kept up with every single toast made to him, right before he had pulled Narylfiel out to dance. She should be dancing more, he thought with a scowl as he careened out of the Great Hall in need of some fresh air. She loved to dance, and he was not entirely sure why more of the young elves did not ask her. Perhaps they were afraid of Legolas. He smirked. He had heard of the incident from when she had first joined the guard and Legolas had bloodied a few of their noses when he heard them talking about her._

_Thranduil leaned up against the doorframe and adjusted his winter crown, careful not to dislodge any of the berries. His head felt a little hazy, probably just from the crowded room, he assured himself. He would return in a few minutes. He closed his eyes for just a second until a peal of laughter had him straightening, peering down the hall._

" _King Thranduil!" the voice exclaimed. "Apparently I was not the only one who found the Great Hall to be stuffy." It was Rubawen, a black-headed elleth in his court who was always laughing, always merry. "Come join me over here and see what I have discovered!" she giggled._

_Thranduil pushed off the wall. "Lady Rubawen," he said, trying to sound instructive. "There is nothing in these halls that_ I _would not already know of."_

" _Oh? I am not so sure," she said. More giggles._

_Thranduil joined her side, looked around curiously. "I don't see—"_

_The king was cut off mid-sentence when Lady Rubawen threw her arms around his neck and planted her lips against his. Rare was it for the Elvenking ever to be caught off his guard, but in this instance, Thranduil was completely taken unawares. Truth be told, Rubawen was a very passionate elleth and an extremely good kisser._

" _Look, my king, mistletoe," she chimed, drawing his eye up to the stone arch above them and kissing him again on the cheek. Rubawen then whispered in his ear a very suggestive request involving her quarters and several more bottles of wine._

_Thranduil disentangled himself from her. He politely refused her request. There had been times when he might have availed himself of an opportunity to feel the warmth and pleasure of a night with a beautiful maiden like Rubawen, but such trysts had long lost their allure; they only made him yearn for something beyond his grasp. He bade Rubawen goodnight and watched her return to the party._

_Thranduil glared at the offending mistletoe hanging over his head. Miserable stuff, he thought, and whose idea had it been to put it there in the first place? Narylfiel's, of course. She had been quite adamant about its inclusion this year. It will be fun, she said. Except it only succeeded in making Thranduil feel rather gloomy._

_His heart no longer in the party spirit, the Elvenking decided not to return to the feast. He thought about the domed rock high above his halls, where one could climb to the very top and see the forest for miles. The stars hung so close over head. Thranduil's eyes drifted back to the doors to the Great Hall, where he could see the dancing and merry-making still going strong. He wondered if Narylfiel could be persuaded to join him. The forest would be beautiful tonight, all frosted white and silver from the morning's snow, and he knew how much she loved the stars._

_King Thranduil returned to the Hall looking for his friend, only Narylfiel was nowhere to be found. After a while of fruitless searching, he gave up and left the Hall, taking the winding path and stairs up to the top of his halls. He shed his crown at the high gate and continued on. The cold night air stung his cheeks as he pushed the heavy outer door open and let himself out into the inky darkness. In front of him, he could see the forest stretching out for miles, the recent snow fall dusting the trees brilliant white in the moonlight._

_Thranduil's eyes turned upward to the sky, to the stars. Still beautiful, warm and promising, they glittered on as they had for all his long years. He briefly wondered should he have taken Rubawen up on her very generous offer and then laughed to himself. No. He was lonely, but not for her companionship. He gazed out to the horizon and thanked the Valar for the continued safety of his kingdom, for the generosity and loyalty of his people. He did not ask for anything for himself, even if he did still harbor a secret hope that one day things might be different, that one day there would be a Yule celebration in which he could bring his beloved out to see the long stretch of crystalline tree tops under the endless expanse of the night sky._

_One day._

_Thranduil stared at the stars for a long time that night._

* * *

Yule, 3018:

It was already quite late when Thranduil knocked on Narylfiel's door to pick her up for the Yule feast. The door opened only slightly and she poked her head out and grinned at him. "You look very…kingly tonight," she settled on the word as she observed him, and he did. Thranduil had chosen to wear his dark gray tunic, almost charcoal in its hue, and the darkness of the cloth edged with silvery thread made his eyes seem even more brilliantly blue.

"I'll be out in just a moment," Narylfiel told him and promptly shut the door in his face.

Seconds later she emerged, giving her skirt a swish for Thranduil as she did so. She had color in her cheeks, and her eyes glowed. Narylfiel loved a good party, and the king had insisted that she take a long nap after lunch to rest up for the evening's festivities.

Thranduil took her hands in his and held her at arm length while he studied her for a moment. "You look stunning," he said and drew her in closer to him. "Very queenly," he whispered next to her ear and he pressed a soft kiss against her cheek and then to her lips. Her mouth softened against his. Then he kissed her again, deeply this time, and his heart squeezed in his chest into something foreign and a little dangerous, like he would consume her if he could; his blood pounded, all fire and need coupled with his fear of losing her. He backed her against her door, hip to hip, his hands pulling her into him, her arms wrapping around his shoulders.

He broke off their kiss first and smoothed down the hair around her face. "I love you, Narylfiel," he said, meeting her eyes. It felt like he was making up for lost time.

"Thranduil," she said and leaned into him, resting her head against his chest and shoulder. "I love you too. I—" and she stopped short and reached up, kissing his cheek instead.

"What?" He eyed her curiously. "You can tell me."

She shook her head. "It's still a novelty, you know. Us. You loving me," she said and shook her head, the corners of her mouth turning up.

Thranduil grinned a little then. "Do you need more proof? I could kiss you again," he said, his hands reaching for her waist.

She swatted them away. "You don't worry at all that we are moving too fast?"

Thranduil shook his head and offered his arm. "Naurenniel, we are announcing our engagement at the feast and I'd wager that half the kingdom already knows, thanks to that miserable dwarf."

"I am a little afraid that everything will change after tonight," she confessed, her soft brown eyes meeting his.

"Indeed it will," said the king. "But such change is not always unwelcome. Look at me," he commanded, even though she already was. "I am glad of it, Narylfiel. I have spent my whole long life looking for you. I'm not about to give you up, timing be damned."

Narylfiel looked thoughtful, although she did not say anything else. Together they left the privacy of her doorway and made their way down to the entrance of the Great Hall, where Galadhor met them and said he would announce the king's entrance as the majority of the other attendees had arrived.

Two of the Royal Guard framed the doorway, ready to open the heavy beechwood doors as soon as they heard Galadhor quiet the crowd for his announcement.

Thranduil patted Narylfiel on the hand amusedly. He could tell something was bothering her. Nerves, probably.

He could hear Galadhor's voice boom out over the crowd. "Welcome, subjects of the Woodland Realm!"

Just then, Narylfiel tugged on his hand and blurted out, "Hûredhiel told me we need to forego tradition and bond as soon as possible!"

Thranduil's mouth fell open.

Galadhor proudly announced, "All rise and hail His Royal Highness King Thranduil and Lady Narylfiel."

The two guards swung the heavy doors open, and Thranduil's mouth snapped shut. He swept Narylfiel into the room, greeting old friends, council members, courtiers and warriors along the way, but he could hardly attend to what he said to any of them. Narylfiel drew his eye the entire time, and he kept replaying what she had just told him. Hûredhiel thought they should not wait. Hûredhiel believed they should bond as soon as possible…and how long had Narylfiel been privy to this opinion? And why the need for urgency now? He swallowed thickly at the realization which attended that particular line of thought. Thranduil led her to the dais where the head table gleamed before all in attendance. Once there, he waited for the room to quiet and he addressed his subjects:

"Yule is for remembrance, for giving thanks to the Valar for our many blessings. This year we have much to remember. Our borders have been tested and many brave warriors have given their lives protecting our lands, our people. The forest is growing darker, the enemy stronger, but even so, we still have much to be thankful for. The Valar have blessed us with strength in ranks, with loyalty and heart that cannot be broken by any evil. We can still fight. We will fight, and we will not give up. I look out at the faces in this room and know that we will endure. We _are_ the Woodland Realm, are we not?"

Warriors, courtiers, scribes—elves from every station, Sindar or Silvan—all broke into a thunderous cheer, all standing, clapping, some saluting, and some hugging their loved ones tightly.

Thranduil took this moment to look at Narylfiel. "We will talk about this later," he mouthed to her.

Many of those in the crowd watched the exchange, saw the king's face soften as he looked upon the young lady beside him. They whispered to one another as King Thranduil pulled out the seat for Lady Narylfiel and wondered if the rumors might be true: that their longtime king, known for his prowess in battle as a warrior, recognized as a fair but stern ruler with a fierce temper when provoked, might have fallen for the young sister of Prince Legolas' wife. To many, such a thing seemed hardly feasible. King Thranduil had been married once already to a beautiful and noble elleth…but there it was in every glance he stole and the undeniably tender way he leaned over to whisper in the elleth's ear.

"You look beautiful," he murmured as he spooned a sizable helping of stewed greens onto her plate.

"Are you angry?" she said under her breath while lifting her cup to her lips.

Thranduil turned his head to answer a question from Lord Rivenion who sat two seats down.

He resisted the urge to take her hand when he turned back. Instead, he accepted the basket of hot rolls being passed down the table. He selected two and placed one on her plate. "Why didn't you tell me?" he said quietly.

"I don't know," Narylfiel answered, picking up the roll and tearing off a piece.

The head cook, Ernil, proudly brought forth a large platter of the finest cuts of smoked venison, which Thranduil expertly carved.

"You have outdone yourself tonight," Thranduil told him, and Ernil beamed.

"Thank you, Your Grace," he said and then smiled at Narylfiel who had been a regular in the kitchen since she was an elfling. "You could not have chosen a finer menu, my lady."

Thranduil served an enormous slice of venison onto her plate. "Lady Narylfiel organized most of tonight's festivities. She has exceeded all expectations once again," the king said to Ernil.

"It is good that she has returned from the Forest Guard. I always worried for her when she was out on the border," Ernil said and hefted the platter up off the table and continued to serve the other guests.

Thranduil leaned toward Narylfiel after the head cook left. "We are fixing this tonight, " he whispered in her ear.

Narylfiel blushed. "And you wonder why I didn't tell you earlier?" She took a rather large gulp of her wine.

Thranduil lay down his knife. "It's your health, your life." His eyes darkened until he remembered the many elves paying attention to the head table. He attempted a smile. "We'll talk later."

"It's your life too," Narylfiel dabbed at her mouth with her napkin and bravely met his eyes. "I didn't want you to feel trapped."

"Trapped?" the king repeated and then laughed loudly enough to draw more than half the eyes of the room. "I should welcome such a trap."

Then music began to play merrily from the corner where the court musicians had set up their various harps and instruments, and Galadhor stood up in his role as announcer and declared, "Now begins the time for giving gifts! For Yule is for giving thanks and honoring friends, new and old!"

Narylfiel pushed back her chair and stood after retrieving a lovely wrapped box from under her chair. "I will return shortly," she murmured to her king. "You may want to watch." She lightly stepped down from the dais and made her way through the sea of tables, occasionally stopping to greet a friend or two. She headed toward the dwarves' table, Thranduil realized. He cut his eyes to Rivenion, and the elder smiled smugly.

The dwarves found out that evening that they were quite mistaken about the habits of woodland elves. These were not the tame elves from Rivendell who played on gentle harps and sang solemn laments in the Hall of Fire under Lord Elrond's watchful eye. No, indeed. Woodland elves were merry, their faces bright as they passed goblets of wine around every table. Woodland elves were lively-dancing, harping, singing—the king's great hall echoed with their shouts and laughter, and the quick-stepping beat of the melodies that spilled from the room echoed through the Elvenking's palace. No, these elves were decidedly different from those they encountered so long ago in the Hidden Valley. These elves were…quite wild.

Bofur felt quite relieved when he saw Lady Narylfiel draw near, a finely wrapped gift in her hand.

"I came to wish you a happy Yule," she announced to the dwarves at the table, her eyes merry. "And how are you finding our festivities so far?"

"It's quite the celebration!" Bofur exclaimed before Thorin cut him off.

"I think you'll find that the dwarves of Erebor certainly can appreciate a good party," the dwarf prince said licking his lips as he sat down his goblet of wine. "Some elf traditions are not so bad after all!"

"I am glad to hear you say it," Narylfiel said, "for I ask you to join in another tradition—the giving of gifts to new friends."

Thorin hesitantly accepted the gift and sat it down in front of him. He eyed the shining paper as if he did not hardly know what to make of such a gesture. "Thank you, my lady."

"Open it," she said and nodded encouragingly. "It's tradition!"

Thorin briefly eyed Dwalin next to him, and the older dwarf nudged him. "It just seems a shame to ruin this pretty paper…"

"Nonsense!" Narylfiel laughed.

Thorin reluctantly took up the crimson bow and tugged it off, sliding the paper onto the table next to his plate. He stared at his gift; no words came.

"It's a hat," Narylfiel told him, picking up the curiosity from the table and settling it upon poor Thorin's head. It's a traditional Yule gift among elves. We call it a 'mellon merethien carab' in our language, basically a feasting hat."

Bofur peered curiously at the knit creation perching atop Prince Thorin's head. "Are those antlers?"

"Yes, of course!" Narylfiel beamed at him. "It's supposed to be a Great Elk. Prince Thorin, you honor our friendship by wearing my feasting hat this evening."

Thorin shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "But I have nothing to give you in return, my lady."

Narylfiel smiled then. Truly she did look lovely that evening. "Then I would have your friendship, Prince Thorin." She bowed to them then and turned to leave. "I hope to see you all dancing later," she called over her shoulder.

Thorin reached up to pull the offending garment off, and Dwalin stopped his hand. "Oh, no," he said to his prince. "You were the one who just _had_ to stay for the feast. You're wearing that hat."

Dori eyed it curiously. 'You know, I think it looks like a tea cozy."

Narylfiel triumphantly made her way back to the head table, grinning to herself as she did so. She schooled her face into a more serious expression as she sat down. It would not do for the dwarves to see her be too gleeful over the very silly gift that the dwarf prince now sulkily wore.

Rivenion stopped her as she passed by. "Well played, my dear," he told her.

"Why, thank you! Queen lesson one," she said with a wink. "Know your friends and enemies. I _do_ pay attention every once in a while."

Thranduil waited until she had sat back down, and he refilled her wine. "Is that my Great Elk tea cozy?" he asked, stifling laughter.

"Hush," Narylfiel told him. "I was working under short notice."

Thranduil sipped his wine. He glanced across the room once more in the dwarves' direction. "I liked that tea cozy. I'm not sure I want the dwarf to have it."

Narylfiel snorted. "Please. We both know it's hideous."

"You made it for me." Thranduil tried to look miffed.

"I'll make you another one," she vowed.

"I'll be looking forward to it," the king said and pushed his plate away, standing as he did so. He signaled the musicians to trill a few bright notes to catch his guest's attention.

"What are you doing?" Narylfiel asked, setting down her fork to look up at him.

Thranduil glanced down at her, his eyes as bright as she could ever remember seeing them. "Dear one, you are not the only one who has a gift to give," he told her gently. He faced the room and waited for it to quiet down. "Doubtless many of you may have already heard word of this—" he smiled broadly and waited for the crowd's hum of anticipation to dissipate. He reached for Narylfiel's hand and pulled her up from her seat to stand next to him, and he kept her hand warmly in his.

"The Valar have blessed me this year indeed. Tonight before kin and kingdom, I ask Lady Narylfiel to become my wife, my queen. I would marry this time for love, " he said and met Narylfiel's eyes, "to someone whose strength and loyalty have made her my longtime friend and confidante." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring, a ring with a shining gem so bright that Narylfiel was sure Thranduil must have plucked it from the night sky, and slid it onto her finger. "Marry me, my naurenniel?" he asked softly, the guests forgotten. It was just the pair of them, and Thranduil's eyes lovingly searched hers.

Stunned, she nodded her head. He smiled. She smiled. Her cheeks flamed to a lovely pink hue, and then she impulsively kissed him to the collective gasps and subsequent roar of all those in attendance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil: #JustGettingStarted #SheSaidYes
> 
> Narylfiel: #LuckiestGirlEver
> 
> Thorin: #HatFail
> 
> Please Comment, Leave Kudos, and Bookmark!


	29. Engaged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil asks an important question...

_Three thousand years ago…_

_The candles had burnt out hours ago, and the fire on the hearth had long since guttered into ash. Thranduil sat alone in his room. He was king now. They had put a crown on his head and pronounced it before all of the kingdom._

_He just did not think that he could do this._

_Elarien had been there with him. At one point she had threaded her fingers through his and gave them a timid squeeze. But that moment had vanished as quickly as it had come, and Thranduil could not be sure if was real or if he might have imagined it all in the first place._

_He did not want to be king._

_He had never wanted it._

_Yet hours and one spiky crown later, here he was. In his father's chambers. My chambers, he corrected himself._

_He withdrew farther into the high back chair, so that if anyone looked, they might guess that it was just a shadow, not the king himself. He felt like a shadow. Everything in the room reminded him of his father, and none of it, of himself. In a few hours, he would be expected to hold court, hear petitions. His kingdom had suffered much loss from the battle, and they would need a strong king to cobble the remains together, to see their losses through and ensure their survival._

_In just a few more hours._

_For now, he could lurk in his father's chair, pretend to be a shadow. For a few more hours, he could mourn the loss of his last family member. He could grieve._

_When the sun rose, he would have to be Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm. He would have to take all his petty wants and fears and lay them aside. He would have to pretend to have the same strength and formidable mien as his father. He needed to be focused and engaged. He honestly did not know if he had it in him._

_There was a small part of Thranduil that briefly considered running away from it all, but that as only a very small part of him. As much as Thranduil feared and loathed the idea of being king, he loved the Woodland Realm. He loved its wide, deep hollows, its tall beeches, and the way the trees sighed together in the wind; and he loved its people, especially the wild and fierce sylvan elves, who had pledged their loyalty to his father so many years ago. He loved his father. And he would provide for his people to the best of his ability and make the Greenwood great again, if he could. He owed them that much at least._

* * *

Yule, 3018:

Long tables filled the room, and each was strewn with bright goblets and dark green fir fronds with red berries that glistened in the light of several fat, jolly looking white candles which marched down the middle of the table like eager sentinels.

Over all this, King Thranduil presided. From his view at the head table, he surveyed the Great Hall with a sense of self-pleased satisfaction. Now his uncommonly good mood could be attributed to the lovely elleth beside him, whose fingers were still wrapped in his, but it could also be from his sighting of the dwarves across the room, one of whom still wore a very silly hat, it could have been derived from the bright and lively music and the shouts and laughter of the many elves dancing, or perhaps it was a combination of all these at once. Even with the darkness threatening his kingdom, with so many losses on the border recently, even now, his people still found cause to celebrate and be thankful, and Thranduil was grateful that he had decided to go ahead and have the feast, despite their difficult times. It was exactly what they all needed. A bright moment to light the darkness ahead of them all.

He eyed the elleth next to him, briefly admired the way his ring glistened on her finger. It stirred up all sorts of uncomfortable feelings inside him, a desire to protect and possess. He really considered leaving the feast right now, pulling her with him, out through the main doors down the long halls of his palace and to his quarters, where he would keep her all night. His grip on her hand tightened. She smiled up at him.

Instead of doing all those things, Thranduil pushed his chair back and stood. "Would you honor me with a dance?"

Narylfiel grinned a little. "Of course, your Majesty," she said as she folded her napkin and placed it on the table. "The honor is all mine." She accepted his offered arm, and he led her down to the already crowded floor, where many couples merrily danced to the lilting melody played.

Thranduil then took her hand in his and then pulled her in, perhaps a little too close for some of the onlooking matrons' comfort, but he cared little for their censure that night. He only saw his beloved, and the way her cheeks flushed when he put his other hand on her waist.

"Let me know if you start feeling tired," he told her and kissed her cheek, "or need to rest."

"This is where I want to be," she said and leaned her head against his shoulder.

More than several pairs of eyes followed the king and his betrothed that night. For many, seeing their king lovingly dancing with Narylfiel proved a difficult image to reconcile with what they knew of him, his past, what they understood about his stern ways, his fierce reputation. But there he was…dancing, laughing, stopping to brush a stray hair from her eyes, lifting her hand to his lips, tightening his grip on her waist to lift her into the air when the music called for it.

One of the older elleth, Lady Almea remarked to her circle of friends that she could hardly believe it. "She surely must have bewitched him," she observed aloud.

Beside her, Rivenion laughed. It was the sort of laugh that was the perfect blend of belittlement and scorn. "You know nothing of our king if you say so," he said drily. "It's obvious that he loves her."

Almea drew herself up and eyed the pair across the room. "It's not obvious to me," she said.

Rivenion took a slow sip of his wine, all the while watching his king dance with Narylfiel. "Then you either don't know King Thranduil at all, or you have never loved." On that note, he set his cup down and left.

Lady Almea might have laughed off his comment, but her eyes narrowed at the pair on the floor, watching the young elleth who clearly captivated her king.

Meanwhile, the elven feast turned merry-making continued to astonish the party of four dwarves on the other side of the room. Bofur and Dori watched the elvish dancing and singing with wide eyes while Thorin sat beside them scowling, the tea cozy hat still perched atop his head at the most ridiculous angle. Dwalin folded his arms and said nothing, save for the occasional grumble about how thankful he was that the majority of the elves gave their table a wide berth.

Dwalin's comfort proved to be short-lived, however, for just as the Elvenking led Lady Narylfiel out for their first dance, a petite and dark-headed elleth approached the dwarves' table.

"Quel undome," she said, smiling a friendly smile, and her dark eyes were ringed with impossibly long lashes. "That is 'Good Evening' in our language," she told them. "My name is Melui, and I invite you all to join us in the next group dance."

Thorin immediately shook his head 'no,' but Dwalin's quick hand on his shoulder put a stop to that.

"Prince Thorin would love too," Dwalin gruffly said.

"Aye, and we would too," chimed in Bofur. He loved dancing, of any kind.

Melui leaned down, a twinkle in her eye as she met Dwalin's gaze. "And what about you, sir? Would you dance as well?"

Thorin's eyes shifted to Dwalin as he stood, adjusted his hat so the antlers would stop flopping over into his eyes. "Oh, yes," the dwarf prince answered for his companion. "Dwalin just _loves_ dancing."

Melui extended her hand to him. "Wonderful!" she exclaimed as Dwalin stood, unsmiling. "I know that my king would be very pleased to see his guests enjoying themselves."

She ushered them all to the middle of the room, where a large circle was already forming. Narylfiel had just finished her dance with King Thranduil, who noticed the dwarves' confusion as some elleths handed the stocky guests evergreen fronds from a large basket. Dwalin stared at his tree branch, holding it away from his body with two fingers, as if he expected it to bite him.

"This is your doing, I'd wager?" Thranduil asked in a low voice. Narylfiel only smiled, and the king tried to hide his amusement as he left her side to return to the head table. Thranduil opted not to participate in the group dance. Waving greenery and skipping around a circle was really not his preferred form of dancing. He reclined gracefully in his chair and smiled in the dwarves' direction. Just because he did not choose to dance himself did not mean he couldn't enjoy watching others dance…and he planned to enjoy every second of seeing Prince Thorin dance the _Yenearsira Salk_ , a traditional Silvan dance in which the ellon, or in this case dwarves, pranced around a circle while their partners clapped in time to the music and tried to pull off bits of greenery from the branch held by the ellon they favored most.

As the music began to play, the dwarves shuffled around the circle, sandwiched between several pairs of young and eager ellyn who enthusiastically waved their fronds toward the maidens in the circle. It soon became clear to Thranduil that the ellyth were having a competition among themselves to see how much they could pluck from the dwarves' hands. He almost felt sorry for them. Almost.

Thranduil stood when the dance ended, intent on reclaiming Narylfiel's attention for the next couple's dance. He tapped on her shoulder, and then smiled at the collection of fronds in her hands. He took them from her and placed them into the basket held by one of the younger ladies. "I am sorry, but you'll just have to tell your dwarven friends that you are already spoken for," he told her silkily, placing a kiss on her hand.

Narylfiel laughed, turning her head to see the dwarves in question surrounded by several curious ellyth. "I believe I've given them enough cause for excitement this evening," she said and then met his eyes. "What about you, though? Have you had enough excitement?" she asked teasingly.

Thranduil chuckled, and his eyes darkened as he pulled her closer. "No, naurenniel," he said only loud enough for her to hear. "Our excitement is far from over."

Much later the Elvenking led a pink-cheeked and slightly breathless Narylfiel from the Great Hall. He paused briefly at the archway festooned with mistletoe. "Shall we?" he asked her.

"We definitely must," she agreed, and her Elvenking swept her under the arch, his arms going tightly around her waist.

And then as quickly as the kiss began, the Elvenking ended it, tucking her arm under his and leading her through the palace, up to the High Gate, where they could access the outer door to the domed rock high above Thranduil's halls.

Narylfiel had been though the High Gate before, first with Legolas and her sister, but then later with Thranduil, and the view never failed to astonish. It was not merely the elevation, but what the view afforded—a wide glimpse above the treetops, clear to the Misty Mountains toward the west and the Lonely Mountain and Long Lake in the East. The snow had begun to fall again, softly, and the cold night air burned in her chest.

Thranduil drew her in close with her back to his chest, put his arms around her, so they could both still watch the snow dust the tree tops.. "Now," he said, "let's talk."

He did not have to go into any more detail, and Narylfiel felt her ears grow hot. "Hûredhiel fears that I am fading, that the poison has damaged my feä." The last word came out as a whisper.

Thranduil's arms tightened around her, and he did not speak right away. When he finally did, his words sounded unsure, hesitant even. "But she believes you can still bond," he said slowly.

Narylfiel nodded. "For now. At least that's what she thinks."

Gently, Thranduil guided her around to face him. He took her hand in his and marveled for a moment at how the snowflakes shone against her dark hair, like stars caught in night sky. "Narylfiel, you mentioned earlier that you did not tell me this out of fear, but I would have no such fear from you—not you, who has always lived so fearlessly. I love you, and I want you. I would hope those reasons alone would be enough to convince you to become my wife, my bondmate. But there is one more thing that I would have you know," Thranduil said, tracing her cheek with his thumb. "We would bond, and Valar willing, it would be enough to heal you…but I hope that it will save me too." He looked down as he told her this and then shyly met her eyes. "For my heart had grown weary in despair and loneliness."

"Thranduil," Narylfiel murmured his name. This was her Elvenking, her fearless warrior, but right now he was just Thranduil, vulnerable and, how she loved him best, hopeful. "Tonight?" she asked, tilting her face up to his. "Yes. Of course, yes," she said.

Thranduil grinned broadly and kissed the top of her head. "I do not want to wait for formal ceremonies or feasts or any of those things," he said and gestured to the forest and night sky. "I would claim you as my own before all of Arda and the Valar, right here," he told her, his eyes shining. "Right now, Narylfiel."

Her eyes trailed over the snow still softly falling, the white-fringed treetops and dark sky stretching endlessly over the mountains to the far horizon. She met his eyes and seriously felt like tears might come at any moment. "All I have ever wanted was you, Thranduil."

Then he took both her hands in his and asked for Eru's blessing of their union, and both made vows, the like of which have never been heard by mortal ears, except to say that they spoke of love and unending devotion that would not be broken by time or death.

And when they had finished, Thranduil closed the silence between them, his lips on her lips, and suddenly the cold did not feel so cold any longer. The snow fell quietly all around them, like the slow descent of the stars themselves, but Thranduil cared not for any of these things, save the elleth in his arms.

The sound of the outer door latch clanging broke the silence. Thranduil reluctantly let go of Narylfiel and waited as Elfir stepped into the snow. His face was grim as he apologized for interrupting anything.

"My lord," he said grimly. "I need to escort you and Lady Narylfiel inside at once. We must hurry. There has been a breach in our security. The Front Entrance has been found open."

"The guards?" Thranduil asked, his voice sharp, worried.

"Unconscious," Elfir said. "Come, Your Majesty. We must get you to safety. We don't know how many intruders there might be or what their aim is."

Thranduil and Narylfiel followed Elfir into the dimly lit hall, and Narylfiel noticed that even when Thranduil stopped to seal the door, the Royal Guard's hand never strayed from the hilt of his sword. Narylfiel wished for her knives at that moment, but her dress, as lovely as it was, did not provide for weapon carrying of any sort. After the High Gate was closed and locked, Thranduil reached down and pulled a long, thin knife from his boot.

Elfir nodded his approval, but Narylfiel only shook her head. "Really, Thranduil? To the Feast?"

Thranduil smiled mirthlessly. "And now I need it." Then he eyed Narylfiel. "We need to move quickly—" he began.

"I can run," she insisted. "I can, Thranduil. If I get winded or can't keep up, I'll tell you."

Elfir gestured to the open hall and stairs. "Let's go." The trio moved quickly, quietly through the corridors, racing along the straight halls and slowing when they reached an intersection or breezeway. Then Elfir would cautiously check around corners before letting the king or Narylfiel cross.

Halfway down one of the longer sets of stairs, they met up with one of the other Royal Guards, Dorwil. He quickly bowed to his king and reported that the palace was being carefully searched. No trace of any intruders had been found. No scent, no prints or trail of any kind. Narylfiel leaned against the stair railing while he and Thranduil talked. Agreeing to run might have been a tactical error on her part. She felt herself getting lightheaded again. Narylfiel reached for Thranduil, patted him on the shoulder.

He turned at once, his arms immediately reaching out to steady her when he noticed how pale she had become.

"My lord, I can carry her back to her room," offered Dorwil.

"Give me your arm," Thranduil told her, not really hearing Dorwil. "There you go," he said placing her arm around his neck, and he lifted her gently into his arms.

When they reached the royal family's hallway, the king stopped. He set her down and then took Narylfiel's hands in his. "I want you to wait in your room. I will send two guards to watch your door. Do not leave for any reason," he told her firmly.

Narylfiel opened her mouth to argue, but then thought better of it.

Thranduil led her to her room and said, "I'll be back." He kissed her gently, just once, and he frowned at her worried expression.

"I will, Narylfiel. I'm going to oversee the search and then I'll come right back to you," he said and reassuringly rubbed her arm. "And we'll finish what we started," he whispered conspiratorially.

Narylfiel tried a smile. "Alright then," she said. She closed the door. Thranduil waited until he heard the lock click. Then he turned and fixed his two royal guards with a look.

"Dorwil, you stay here. Elfir, send one more guard to station with Dorwil at Lady Narylfiel's door," the Elvenking commanded. He made one more stop to his own quarters but came out quickly, adjusting the newly added belt at his waist.

Thranduil reached down to the scabbard on his belt, drew his sword in the flickering light of the hall sconces. He glanced one more time at his beloved's room, and his jaw tightened. "Take me to the Front Gate," he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Aaaaugh! Another desperate cliff hanger from yours truly. Sometimes these things just have to happen.
> 
> Thranduil: #Frustrated #IntrudersGonnaDie
> 
> Narylfiel: #WorththeWait #PearlNightgown?
> 
> Please Comment, Bookmark, and Leave Kudos! 
> 
> We just hit the 100,000 word mark in this story and are now over 100 kudos. Thank you everybody for all the love and support! Next chapter is going to change some things... ;)
> 
> 1\. Who are the intruders? What do they want?...
> 
> 2\. And does Narylfiel really stay put?


	30. Beloved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil investigates a breach in security...and makes good on his promise to his beloved.

_Four hundred years ago..._

_Narylfiel had quickly become very adept at listening. For example, right now with her ear pressed to her bedroom door, she knew exactly how many steps it took for Thranduil's guards to clear the hallway. She waited a beat and then stuck her head outside her door. All was clear. She looked back in her room, at Bun, her stuffed rabbit, who sat tucked against her pillows. He regarded her with a serious expression._

_"You stay here and keep watch," she advised him. Then she crept out of her room and tip-toed down the hall, careful not to make a sound as she passed by her sister's and Legolas' bedroom. She stopped in front of the king's bedroom door, looked both ways down the hall, and then coolly tried the door handle, sliding into the room with ease._

_Her eyes could not have been wider as she surveyed the room. It was just all so…kingly. The furnishings, the décor, the fabrics and wall hangings—they all fit Thranduil's style perfectly, Narylfiel decided approvingly. The fireplace could have easily roasted a wild boar, and across the room, the wide four-poster bed dominated the space. All of the dark wooden furniture gleamed in the candlelight, like it had been polished to a high shine as a point of pride. Narylfiel moved closer to the bed for a closer look. The posts on the bed, she realized, had been carved to look like trees growing straight up and then branching off to form a canopy. It suited him. Wild, but elegant, just like him. She reached out a small finger and touched the silken coverlet that looked green and silvery at the same time. Soft._

_Her curiosity getting the better of her, Narylfiel wandered farther into the king's suite, drawn to the small portrait on the far wall. It was a sketch of Legolas, she realized, when he was an elfling. It was extremely well done, shaded in some sort of dark pencil. In the drawing, Legolas sat across a tree branch, with one leg dangling over the side, his mouth caught in a laugh. Not far from Legolas' picture, there was a sketch of an elf she had never seen before drawn in the same style; he looked familiar though. In his portrait, the elf leaned over a table with maps on it, a serious expression on his face as he pointed to something. Narylfiel looked closer. Oh, she thought sadly, this elf must be Thranduil's father; she had noticed in the picture that he wore the same big ring on his finger that the king always wore. A few more drawings of similar make, of subjects like the beeches by the front gate and one of a Great Elk, hung in the room; there were no portraits of Thranduil's queen, Narylfiel observed. Perhaps the reminder of her absence made him too gloomy._

_She followed the far wall to the back of Thranduil's suite. Peeking inside one of the doors, she saw a well-appointed bathing chamber, and inside the opposite set of doors, an enormous closet. Narylfiel bit her lip. She really wanted to explore that closet…but perhaps she had already trespassed enough. She could imagine the king's expression if she were caught sneaking inside his closet! She silently shut the doors and made her way back toward the main part of his room._

_Before Narylfiel left, she noted that there were two handsome, high back chairs across from the fire, and that struck her as a little sad. Poor Thranduil. Did he sit by the fire and stare at that empty chair, wishing for company? Narylfiel thought that he must feel rather lonely in this great big room all by himself._

_She eased herself out of the king's suite and was back in her own chambers in less than a minute. Bun greeted her with his usual enigmatic expression._

_Narylfiel promised herself that she would return again some time soon, to look some more at the intriguing drawings in the king's room, to explore inside his very interesting closet._

_She made a few more trips during that first year of her stay at the palace. Narylfiel had always been a very curious elfling, and there was no one who captured her interest more than King Thranduil. She always hoped that she might learn a little more of him in each visit, but his room was always exactly as she found it on the first day. Even so, Narylfiel made a little mental list of all the new facts she had uncovered in her snooping:_

_1\. Servants or not, Thranduil was extremely neat, she decided. He never left clothes on the floor. Even his hairbrush was pristine._

_2\. He loved beautiful things. This was a guess, but it made sense._

_3\. Thranduil liked to read poetry. Narylfiel had found three different poetry tomes on four different trips into his room. Once she had found a book about the healing arts._

_On Narylfiel's last little trip into the king's room, she made a discovery that overshadowed all the others. Late one evening, she heard the guards come down the hall for their king. Galadhor was with them. She could hear their voices from her door, open just a crack, and then a few moments later, Thranduil swept down the hall with them. Narylfiel watched them leave and briefly debated whether or not she should go for a look. She might get caught. What if Thranduil returned quickly? But there was also the lure of seeing his room after he had just been interrupted! Curiosity won out, and Narylfiel snuck down the hall to see what she could see. Only a quick peek, she promised herself._

_This one occasion was the only time she ever saw anything out of place in King Thranduil's room. There was a robe draped over one of his chairs by the fireplace, and on the ottoman, a tray with a half full glass of wine, but what really caught Narylfiel's attention was the leather bound book carelessly left open on the chair. A nubby pencil rested on the page. The lines were too slight to tell the nature of his subject. It could be a map, a diagram, a plan for something...or a sketch. Narylfiel's eyes wandered over to the far wall, where she first saw the portrait of young Legolas. Her breath caught. She dropped the pencil and hurried over for a closer inspection. Newly framed on the wall hung another sketch, and this one, of her likeness. Narylfiel's lips curved up. The Narylfiel in the drawing was seated on the straw floor of the stables, cradling the baby elk's head on her lap; her eyes were downcast but her mouth was smiling._

_The king had a picture of her in his room. With his family. He considered her a part of his family. Her heart suddenly felt very full and more than just happy…_

_…until she backed out of the room and ran straight into Galadhor. As he steered her firmly back into her own room, he politely informed her that the king was a very private person, and if she cared for him, then she would allow him his much needed personal space._

_"You won't tell him, will you?" She pleaded with wide brown eyes._

_"No, I will not," said Galadhor sternly, "but you must promise never to go snooping in King Thranduil's room again." His eyes softened. He always had an enormous soft-spot for elflings. Legolas had been spoiled rotten. He crouched down to her eye level. "Narylfiel, King Thranduil gives so much of himself for our kingdom. He works tirelessly to keep our home safe with his strength and magic; he is always there for when any little crisis presents itself, or healer needs his input, or the Forest Guards want to report an occurrence on the borders. He may rule all of the Woodland Realm, but I think he has very little that he can call truly his—and his room is one of those things. Don't you think he deserves that small freedom?"_

_Narylfiel stared back at him and nodded solemnly. Galadhor patted her on the head fondly then, and she slipped back inside her own room._

_The king had made a picture of her and hung it on his wall. Thranduil was…artistic. She never mentioned his drawing talent to him, and she never ventured back inside the king's bedroom._

_But she thought about it—him drawing, alone in his room, sitting in front of the fire in one of those high back chairs. She wondered what else he drew._

_As Narylfiel grew older and her love for Thranduil developed into something much deeper and infinitely more tender, she wondered if he still made sketches. If he ever drew another picture of her. If he thought her beautiful enough to sketch now._

_She never asked, but she wondered._

* * *

Yule, 3018:

Narylfiel was too tired to think very clearly; she had reached that stage of being so tired and a little bit giddy that it becomes hard to think straight. Her mind was full of wonder and love. Only hours earlier, she and Thranduil had exchanged vows under the stars, in the snow. Her eyes started to fill just thinking, just in remembrance of the way he had looked at her, like she was really saving him and not the other way around. His dark blue eyes had been expressive, vulnerable, full of hope. She had loved him for so many years; it still didn't seem possible now that he was hers, that he returned her feelings.

And if Elfir had not interrupted, Thranduil might have been with her right now: claiming her, making their bond between them, loving her long into the night.

Instead her husband—was he really?—had gone with his warriors to investigate the breach of the front gate.

Narylfiel sighed and sat down on the edge of her bed, her fingers playing with the silken bedcovers. She wondered when he would return. He had said 'soon,' but what did that really mean? Thranduil had never been particularly time-oriented. She wondered what he would say if he came back and she was waiting for him in bed…with nothing on? She grinned a little to herself.

Slowly Narylfiel stood and reached around to loosen the ties on the back of her gown. It _would_ have been more fun to have Thranduil help her with it, but she supposed there would be time enough for that later. She let the dress slide off her shoulders and stepped out of it, careful enough to hang it over the top of her armoire drawer. She sat down and appraised herself in the mirror while she untwisted her hair, teased out the small intricate braids. She still looked pale and a little tired too, but her eyes shone brighter than they had before the feast. Thranduil loved her.

Her fingers went to loosen the front ties on her shift, and despite herself, she shivered. Perhaps waiting for Thranduil in the bed with nothing on was not the most sensible idea. Her eyes drifted to her linen drawer, and a most welcome notion occurred to her. Oh, Thranduil was going to love this.

* * *

Thranduil knew he could not stay with Narylfiel, not with the breach in his realm's defenses, but Valar knew he wanted to, more than anything. Instead of dwelling on what might have been if he had stayed with her, what he could have been doing at that very moment—because that was a sure path to frustration, if there ever was one—Thranduil made himself listen to Elfir's summary of the incident.

"We had our usual retinue of guards posted, my lord. Barathion had even added the two extra guards per your suggestion at the front of the main path, considering our dwarven…guests. All six guards were found unconscious, but alive," Elfir told him as they walked briskly to the Front Gate.

"And the doors themselves?" Thranduil asked, referring to the Front Gate, which was the only true entrance into his halls, and was protected by an ancient elven magic bound to the blood and will of the king.

"They were left wide open, without any obvious sign of a forced entry," Elfir said.

As they turned the corner, Thranduil's mouth tightened into a straight line. He did not know exactly what he had been expecting to find at the Front Gate, but it wasn't the sight of five of his guards slumped against the wall, with one of them starting to stir. The front doors were perfectly in tact, sealed shut. Thranduil stepped carefully past the guards' sprawled out figures and approached the gate, placed his hand upon one of its strong carved panels. The door's magic hummed under his palm. It was subtle, but he could feel some sort of remnant, like a kind of residue of decidedly non-elven magic left behind. The king swallowed thickly as he ran through a very short list of names in his mind of the few people who would be powerful enough to incapacitate six of his guards and command the doors to open.

Thranduil lifted his palm from the door and strode over to Drethor, the guard who had just woken up. The guard took a slow sip of water brought to him by Hûredhiel, who had been summoned to see about the guards' health.

"I've the worst taste in my mouth," complained Drethor to Hûredhiel, "all woolly and bitter." Then Drethor noticed his king and tried to get to his feet, then winced.

Hûredhiel gently pushed him back down. "Careful, now. You hit your head, Drethor," she said and then prompted her king with a knowing look.

Thranduil waved his hand. "Stay seated, Drethor."

Drethor bowed his head and then winced again. "Your Majesty, please—is the palace safe, was anyone hurt?" His voice was full of woe and shame.

"We do not know what the intruders' aim was, but for now, we have no reports of victims or damage," Thranduil said with a measured look at Drethor. He had served loyally for years, and for many of those, had kept watch over the Front Gate without incident. "Tell me, what do you remember last?"

Drethor took another slow sip, closed his eyes. "We were all in high spirits, my lord. We could hear the music from the feast, and some of us planned on splitting shifts so we could go later. Then, slowly not much at first, I noticed this mist, just creeping down the hall, seeping under the Front Gate." He opened his eyes and looked down fearfully toward the doors. "Then everything turned hazy, dark like—like a black shadow."

If Drethor's description disturbed Thranduil, the king tried not to show it. Instead he arched an eyebrow at Elfir and his captain, Barathion, who had just come up from the lower halls. "Black shadow…I have heard that before, long ago."

Thranduil ordered the remainder of the unconscious guards and Drethor to be removed to the healing ward, and he swept past them with Elfir and Barathion by his side. "Open the doors," Thranduil commanded the newly arrived sentinels standing watch.

The Elvenking passed through the Gate and into the darkness. The snow still fell sleepily, enough to cover any tracks. The bridge and wood beyond were softly white, innocent enough. The beeches and stream were silent, and inside, Thranduil's heart churned.

"My lord," Barathion began, "we found no trace of intruders in the lower halls. None."

Thranduil looked at him sharply, but his voice was low, controlled. "Check them again, Captain. Send the order that any prisoners should be left alive. I want them for questioning." The king turned and left the darkness and cold of the wood. The red torch-light flickered as he passed. "Seal the gates!" he commanded and the great doors closed behind their king with a clang.

Thranduil headed for his throne room. "Elfir, send Althirn to collect our dwarven guests and bring them here. And I want Hûredhiel to report on the status of the six guards."

"My lord, the dwarves—" Elfir said.

Thranduil interrupted. "Yes, the dwarves, the only known prisoners to escape my realm without my leave? Bring them to me."

Elfir bowed his head. "Of course, Your Majesty."

Thranduil saw Hûredhiel first. All of the guards had since woken up, but none remembered seeing anything differently from Drethor's account. Some of them complained that their heads felt fuzzy or they couldn't remember anything at all.

"Is there any known medicine or brew that could work so efficiently as to knock out six guards?" Thranduil asked Hûredhiel, his eyes narrowing. "Were they drugged?"

Hûredhiel nodded grimly. "From what I can tell, yes. They were drugged. I could not tell you how or when."

Thranduil watched her appraisingly. "What makes you think so?"

"They all described the same bitter taste in their mouths, like their tongues felt woolly. Their eyes were dilated, their pulses unusually low." Hûredhiel said.

With a sigh, the Elvenking descended from his throne and came to stand close to her. The move was not an intimidation tactic. What he was about to say, he wanted kept between them. "Could they have been drugged through something they ate or drank?" he asked quietly.

Hûredhiel knew at once what he was asking, and the suggestion alone sickened her to consider: a traitor within their walls. Were the gates opened with help from someone on the inside? "It is possible," she told him quietly, "but I do not want to believe it."

"Neither do I," murmured the king. "I trust you, Hûredhiel. Be watchful. I fear this attack is only the beginning."

"I will consult our library, my lord, for any record of similar symptoms with known medicines or herbs," she said. Her eyes drifted to the armed guards keeping silent watch over their king. She spoke up, "With your permission, I will return to my patients."

Thranduil's eyes were distant when he looked up. "Of course," he agreed.

"Oh, and congratulations on your engagement, King Thranduil," she said with a soft smile. "I am thrilled for you both."

"Thank you," he said stoically, but Hûredhiel caught the way his eyes brightened.

"Oh, and Thranduil?" she added in a whisper, before she turned to go. "I wouldn't wait." Hûredhiel did not explain herself. She didn't have to.

The king knew exactly what she referred to as he returned up the steps to his throne. "I don't plan to," he said, more to himself than anything, as he watched her leave.

The dwarves showed up ten minutes later, red faced and generally unpleasant looking. Thranduil addressed them from his throne.

"There was an attack on our Front Gate late this evening," he told them summarily to gauge their response.

It was immediate and, in keeping with what he knew about Dwarven manners, overly dramatic and uncouth. Prince Thorin's complexion darkened into an unflattering shade of crimson—he seemed to have finally succeeded in losing Narylfiel's silly hat—and the big, bulky bald dwarf scowled up at him.

"Are you accusing us, Elvenking?" he growled, raising a meaty fist in Thranduil's direction.

The Royal Guard drew their swords in response, a clean peal of metal scraping in one precise move. The dwarves bunched together and glared up at him.

"Is this how you treat guests?" cried the dwarf in a misshapen hat. "Invite us to feast and then question us like enemies?"

Thranduil gestured for his guards to sheath their swords. He leaned forward, just a little, used his best magnanimous voice, "I accuse you of nothing, Thorin, son of Dain. _I_ am concerned for your safety. The enemy struck tonight—breached the magic of our doors, yet took nothing. Did nothing."

"Nothing that you know of," countered Thorin stonily, "except to test the strength of your defenses."

Thranduil's eyes hardened. "It will not happen again."

"We planned on leaving tomorrow," Prince Thorin said. "I will tell my father of the attack. He will want to know."

"I will send guards to see you through the woods safely," Thranduil offered. He couldn't have the whelp inconveniently dying in his realm, now could he?

The bulky older dwarf bristled. "We hardly need extra guards slowing us down."

Thranduil met Thorin's eyes. The dwarf was hot-headed and naïve to a fault, but there were some things the Elvenking knew he understood. "Tell your father to shore up his defenses on his mountain. By the time the spring thaw starts, our allies need to be ready for war."

Then he signaled for the guards to lead his guests back to their rooms.

Conversing with dwarves...never his strong suit. But he had gleaned one very important piece of information—actually the one important detail he had wanted to know. The dwarves had not opened the gate.

But...what if that was what someone, the enemy, wanted him to think? Perhaps someone thought to poison their tenuous alliance?

Poison...Thranduil mulled the word over in his mind; it did not take long for his thoughts to turn to Narylfiel. His little spark.

Hûredhiel said not to wait.

Thranduil stood quickly, came down the stairs three steps at a time. If the guards were surprised at having to hurry to catch up to their lord who strode though his halls as quickly as they had seen him move in battle, they tried not to show it on their faces, and of course, not a single one of them mentioned it, however much they might of wished to.

Their King stopped at Lady Narylfiel's door. He told the guards keeping watch that they could resume their post at the end of the royal hall. Then he entered without knocking.

Thranduil did not mean to wait any longer.

* * *

When Thranduil entered Narylfiel's room, only two of the sconces were still lit, and Narylfiel had fallen asleep in her bed. Thranduil could hardly blame her. It was much later than he had hoped. He knew how exhausted she must have been. He walked silently over to the bedside, spied his ring on her hand atop the coverlet. His heart turned over at the sight of her. His wife. His beloved. He didn't want to disturb her sleep, especially if she had been feeling unwell. But oh, Thranduil had been thinking about her all evening and into the night—about the way she felt in his arms when he had held her in the cold, the scent and the silkiness of her hair against his cheek, her body soft and curved against his, and now… she had fallen asleep on him. It wasn't exactly how he pictured their wedding night.

He brushed a stray hair away from her eyes, which were closed and had been closed every time she slept ever since being injured. Thranduil tried to shrug off the guilty feeling at seeing her asleep alone, but he couldn't, not with her. He had left her alone on their wedding night. He grimaced. It certainly did not signal a very auspicious start to their marriage. He had dropped her off in a hurry, and the poor elleth fell asleep by herself. She deserved so much better.

He could have woken her up—and a more selfish elf might have—but Thranduil knew she needed her rest. He swallowed thickly. Hûredhiel thought she was dying, weakened by the poison to the point of mortality. He could only hope that their bond would be enough to heal her feä, renew her strength. He could not lose her, not now, not after all that had happened between them.

He remembered the dream she'd had in Dale, the one he had seen when healing her—in the dream, he had stopped by her room and the lights had been just as low as they were now. He had leaned over to check on her…and nothing had been the same between them since. But that had been just a dream, Thranduil reminded himself, the corners of his mouth curling up at the memory of it.

He leaned over and softly pressed his lips to hers…

…and she answered him, warm, inviting. She met his lips, and then her arms found his shoulders, his neck, tugging him closer.

"You're back?" she whispered against his cheek.

Thranduil slanted his lips over hers, kissed her again. "Just exactly how tired are you?" he asked.

Narylfiel drew back the blanket on her bed. "Join me and find out," she teased. Much to her king's delight she had on that prim high-collared nightgown from Dale—the one with all those tempting little pearl buttons, and they were buttoned all the way up.

The king smiled a slow smile and arched an eyebrow.

"I may have accidentally on purpose brought it with me?" she said. "You know, to get it cleaned and repaired, of course."

"Of course," echoed Thranduil, a bit huskily. "Good idea."

She patted the space on the bed next to her, but he only shook his head. "I thought we might go to my room—" he told her and met her eyes. "—our room," he corrected himself.

Narylfiel wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed the space beside his ear as he gathered her into his arms. "Our room…I like the sound of that."

Thranduil did not wasted any time taking her from her room, down the hall, and across the short distance to his chambers. Once inside, he set her down, took her hand in his and kissed it.

"Can I give you a tour? He asked, almost shyly, a light blush spreading across his cheeks.

She shook her head, smiled a little.

"What?"

"I _may_ have snuck in here once or twice when I was an elfling," she confessed. Her eyes lingered on his bed, enormous and four-poster that dominated the center of the room. "I was curious."

Thranduil pulled her in closer. "And now?"

Her lips parted and her breath caught. "Still curious," she said, and pink raced across her cheeks very becomingly. She brushed her fingers across his cheekbone and into his hair. "I love you," she told him, meeting his eyes.

His hand caught hers and he turned it over to place a kiss against her open palm. Then, taking both of her hands in his, he led her over to the bed. Narylfiel plopped down, stretched out, crooked her finger toward him.

Thranduil laughed then, and she kept both eyes fixed on his as he slowly undid the clasps down the high collar of his shirt and then pulled it off in one fluid motion before he sat down beside her.

"Come here," he said, and she slid over next to him.

He toyed with the top pearl button on her gown and then popped it open. "I meant what I said, Narylfiel, when we made our vows." Thranduil popped open another button and breathed in slowly, wanting this moment, this feeling to last—to remember everything of how she looked, her sounds, her taste, the warmth of her skin and the softness of her hair, the way her eyes darkened when he touched her.

He cupped her face in both hands and kissed her, slowly, softly, savoring each second.

Her hands settled onto his chest. "Are we really going to do this?" she said, gazing up at him through long lashes.

"We really are," confirmed Thranduil, the corners of his mouth turning up as he tightened his grip on her and flicked open another button. He pressed one more slow kiss to the newly exposed skin. "I'm not the Elvenking with you, Narylfiel. I only want to be your husband," his voice grew husky and he slid another button free, "your friend…your lover."

She opened her arms, and he moved into them.

"Show me," she said.

And he did.

* * *

Narylfiel really didn't have a vast amount of prior experience to draw from—all right, really none to speak of—but she had imagined. She had dreamed.

And Thranduil taking her to his bed, loving her, making love to her…well, it was different than how she imagined. She had always envisioned something powerful, fast-moving, dizzying, but in reality, Thranduil was in no such rush. He took his time. He…sampled. He was slow and deliberate and agonizing all at once. His hands were in her hair, his mouth insistent against her lips and then her neck, and somehow in between, those little pearl buttons disappeared completely. Then it was just his skin, golden and warm, against hers, his mouth trailing down her body, his warmth, his heat as he laced his fingers through hers, whispered how he loved her, how he needed her.

She needed him too.

Her skin bloomed hot under his hands. Both of them felt the pulse of their bond flare up as Thranduil held her, made her his. That moment, their joining together—it truly was beyond any sort of imagining, and there were a few moments in which Narylfiel thought she might have forgotten to breathe—it was just that she never really had an inkling that it could be like this, that Thranduil could take that hollow and needy feeling riding up her sides and through the pit of her stomach and replace it with a warm glow.

But that usually warm pleasant feeling which Narylfiel had grown to associate as her bond with Thranduil gradually grew hotter, doubled, burned in her chest, lancing and swift, until a sharp current surged between them, of power and magic, primal and fierce…

…and Narylfiel cried out.

Thranduil stilled, his forehead against hers. He was a king, a warrior. He commanded armies, ruled with a surety that comes with experience bought of centuries. He was _the_ Elvenking of the Woodland Realm, and yet with her, he hesitated.

Still the current, pure white-hot heat, flooded between them, unseen waves of fire that seemed to scorch through her heart, her lungs, burning, consuming. She could feel her heart throbbing in her head. She buried her face against his hair…

"It's our bond," he said, his eyes pained. "I feel it too." He wrapped his arms around her and held onto her tightly.

…Subtly, the current shifted—the heat subsided; she could feel Thranduil relax against her, until all that remained was a deep, unshakeable feeling of love and contentment. It was Thranduil, she realized. Those were his feelings—she could feel him through their bond. And joy bubbled up inside her, and relief, but mostly joy. She could feel their bond now, really feel it, could feel his strength and feä as though they were her own. She stirred in his arms, and he loosened his hold on her, eased up so they faced each other.

Thranduil smoothed the hair away from her face, paused, and then leaned in and kissed her softly, just once. "Valar," he swore. "I was so afraid that I was going to hurt you. I did hurt you." Regret darkened his eyes. He combed his fingers though her hair, trailed them down her shoulder.

"Thranduil," Narylfiel said, not sure how to put her feelings into words, "what happened?"

"It should never have felt like that," he said quickly, "but when I felt our bond open up, I could feel your fëa again—I could feel how damaged it was, Narylfiel." He pressed another kiss to her forehead, as if to make sure she was really still there with him. "So I—I pushed my strength, my healing, through our bond. I don't know if it will be enough."

She tried not to grimace. "It wasn't too bad," she said, not wanting to add to his guilt.

"Narylfiel," he said flatly. "I could feel it; I know I hurt you."

"I felt like I was on fire," she admitted quietly, and not wanting him to feel worse, added, "but it passed, Thranduil. I can feel our bond. It—it's beautiful." She looked up at him shyly, a blush staining her cheeks. "So…our love making won't always feel like that?"

Thranduil's eyes widened. "No! No, Narylfiel, of course not." He slid his hand down her arm reassuringly. "I'm not sure why our bonding caused such pain for you, but, well, I would hope that it was—I'm sure it was something caused by the poison."

Narylfiel was thoughtful for a moment. "Maybe so," she agreed with a tremor in her voice. "I certainly hope so."

Thranduil's face was a mix of hurt and worry as he adjusted the blanket around them. "You should get some rest," he said and moved so he could hold her. He pressed a kiss into her hair. "I am so sorry," he whispered. "I love you."

"Thranduil?" Narylfiel's voice sounded small. "I'm sorry too."

"What?" He propped himself up. "Narylfiel, no. You haven't done anything that needs an apology."

"You're disappointed," she said and eyed him sorrowfully through her long lashes. "I can feel it through our bond."

"Only disappointed that I hurt you," Thranduil said, an edge to his voice. "That I've upset you, when all I really wanted was to make this night special for you." He touched her cheek. "Narylfiel, you are beautiful, and what you've given me tonight was perfect and special. In no way have you disappointed me." He drew the blanket around her shoulders. "You'll feel better after you get some sleep."

"I don't want to rest." She propped herself up. Narylfiel could feel the warmth of his long, lean body beside hers all the way down to her feet. "And I'm not _that_ tired." She arched an eyebrow at him.

Thranduil's face was the perfect picture of surprise, as if he had been given an unexpected gift, right before Narylfiel leaned toward him, slanted her mouth over his. She nipped at his lower lip and then pushed him back into the pillows.

"What did you have in mind?" he asked, and grinned at her, enough so that she glimpsed a seldom seen dimple in his left cheek.

"Everything," she told him. She kissed his mouth again and then that adorable dimple for good measure as she laced her fingers through his.

Neither of them really rested until the sun started to creep over the edges of the Woodland Realm.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And Finally those two finish what they started way back in chapter 9!
> 
> Thranduil: #BestYuleEver #Finally #LoveMyWife
> 
> Narylfiel: #BetterThanAnyDream #JustSoHappy
> 
> Please Comment, Bookmark, and leave Kudos!


	31. Suspected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil attempts to enjoy a leisurely morning without being called into work...

_Three Thousand Years Ago..._

_When Thranduil woke up, he was alone. The left side of the bed was empty, and the sheets were cold. He placed his hand over his heart, concentrated on their bond. He could feel it faintly, like a pinprick of light in a dark tunnel—just as dim and just as distant._

_He ignored the wave of disappointment he felt at her absence. Expecting her to stay was too much to ask probably. It wouldn't be the first time that Thranduil had expected too much, that he had wanted more than he should have._

_He rolled off the bed. Still, last night had been…wonderful. Thranduil's heart sped up just from the memory of it. He dressed quickly, ran his brush through the back of his hair, smoothed it down._

_He wanted his wife._

_He went to her room, not the new one next to Thranduil's room, not the one meant for a princess of the realm, but her old room in her family's quarters. He suspected it was some sort of power play on her part, not that he cared._

_Thranduil entered without knocking and was stopped by a maid. She pursed her lips and didn't try to hide her disapproval. "Prince Thranduil! Her ladyship is not available."_

_Thranduil quirked an eyebrow. "I'm her husband?" He brushed past her._

_The maid planted herself in front of him. "Your lordship, my lady is in the middle of her morning ablutions and does not wish to be disturbed!"_

_"I have no wish to disturb her, only to speak with her," the prince said and reached for the door to Elarien's chambers._

_"My Lord! My Lady is not decent!" the maid squawked._

_Thranduil's hand stilled on the knob. He turned, just slightly enough to see the lady's maid and give her a withering look. "It's nothing I wouldn't have seen last night. Please leave us."_

_On the far side of the room, Elarien was in the middle of a bath._

_"Abusing the servants again, Thranduil?" she said lightly._

_"Hardly." His eyes took in the long white column of her neck, the blonde curls piled atop her head, her bare arms and shoulders wet and shining in the candlelight. His mouth suddenly felt dry. "I missed you this morning," he told her._

" _How awfully sweet you are," she said and rose from the tub. "Of course, if my maid were still here, she could hand my robe to me." Her skin was bright pink as if she had scrubbed it thoroughly._

_Thranduil picked up the robe and handed it to her. He could not help but watch her._

_"You could have stayed with me." His voice sounded unsure._

_"I know," she answered breezily, squeezing the water from her long pale golden hair._

_He refused to be put off by her nonchalance. "Then why didn't you?" Thranduil asked._

_Elarien belted the robe loosely around her waist and came over to him, still drying her hair with the towel until she stood right in front of him. "I think we both know the answer to that question, Thranduil, however much you might wish to ignore it."_

_"I am not ignoring anything, Elarien," Thranduil corrected her. He sighed. "I…I am willing to try to make this work."_

_Her laughter sounded sharp to his ears, false. "Oh, my darling prince. You are very sweet. And you were very sweet last night. Very gallant."_

_Thranduil swallowed and said nothing. He felt foolish for even coming down here._

_She headed toward her dressing table and sat down on a lacy cushioned seat and peered at herself in the mirror._

_"Of course, I want our marriage to work too," she owned as she pulled a silvery comb through her long hair. "After we get a few things sorted out, reach a few understandings, I'm sure our marriage will be the envy of all my friends."_

_"You'll see, Thranduil," she assured him with a laugh and glanced over her shoulder._

_Her husband had already left._

* * *

One day after Yule, 3018...

Thranduil blinked. He wasn't sure when he had fallen asleep; sometime in the early morning, he supposed. He and Narylfiel had both been exhausted…and with good reason. His eyes drifted down toward Narylfiel, curled up beside him, warm and relaxed. He could just feel the contentment radiating off her. She dreamed, he hoped, of him. Her eyes were still closed, a fact that worried him. He reached out and felt for her fëa through their bond. It was warmer than before, more vibrant feeling, like a stronger pulse.

It was enough to give him hope.

Thranduil eyed the line of sunlight creeping across the foot of the bed from the skylights overhead—a rare luxury in the palace, and cleverly concealed. It was already much later in the morning than he ever stayed in his room. And he hadn't been disturbed… he could only guess that his guards, ever respectful of his privacy, and Thranduil mentally rolled his eyes at the idea, had informed Galadhor. He was quite certain that Galadhor had kept the palace staff at bay.

Thranduil stretched a little, his eyes drawn once more to the elleth in his bed. He just could not stop looking at her, it seemed. Her dark hair spilled across the pillow, and her mouth reminded him of a rosebud. He had always known, or thought, that she was pretty, lovely even. But here in his bed, relaxed and cocooned in his blankets—he could not tear his eyes away. His heart ached to think that she was his, to remember how she had given herself to him last night. She could have had any young warrior, and she had chosen him. Thranduil knew he was the king, and his title mattered to some people, but it hadn't mattered to her. It had never mattered.

He was just…Thranduil to her. And he loved her for it. He hesitated and then touched her shoulder, threaded his fingers through a section of her warm, silken hair. She felt amazingly soft, and yet, he knew first hand of her strength, her resolve.

"I love you," he whispered.

A smile bloomed on her lips, and her eyes fluttered open. "Thranduil," she said. She took in his lean form beside her, his tousled hair, and met his eyes. "I could go for this," she said and stretched. "It's a pretty decent way to wake up."

Thranduil arched an eyebrow. "Only decent?"

She blushed and reached for him. "More than just decent. Fabulous, even." Narylfiel slid into his arms and leaned in for a kiss. "I love you."

And she did, he could feel it, the warm glow of her feelings through their bond, and if he listened very carefully, her song threaded through his—together, making a harmony that he didn't know was possible. It thrilled and humbled him, and Thranduil took comfort that her feä already seemed stronger than last night.

As he pulled her in for another slow, sleepy kiss, Thranduil thanked the Valar for the chance to love her and be loved.

* * *

Much later that morning, Thranduil had finally relented and called for the staff to bring a tray from the kitchens, with the strict understanding that he did not want to be further disturbed: he did not want housekeeping to come by; he did not want to be bothered with questions; he particularly did not want to hear from any of his advisors. He didn't care how urgent they thought it was. He had cracked open the door just enough to stick his head out and speak with Galion. His butler was, of course, suspicious, just as Thranduil thought he would be.

"And shall I bring enough for two, Your Majesty?" he had asked—keeping a completely straight face, not a hint of mischief.

Thranduil's face remained impassive. He merely gave Galion a long look—a 'you had better keep this to yourself if you know what is best for you' look—and said, "That would be acceptable."

"Yes, my lord," Galion said and turned quickly, but not so quickly that Thranduil did not catch a glimpse of a smirk.

Thranduil shut the door behind him, only to see Narylfiel standing by his framed sketches on the far wall. She had borrowed one of his robes; it was ridiculously long on her, but he never thought she looked so beguiling.

"You did these." It wasn't a question. She traced the edge of one of the frames, the one of her as an elfling in the stables. "I saw this once, when I snuck in here." Narylfiel said, her eyes bright. "I was ridiculously happy for days that the Elvenking had drawn my picture."

"I could have had it commissioned," Thranduil countered. He loved teasing her.

She shook her head, grinned. "Don't be all modest on me now," she said. "These are beautiful!"

His lips curled into a half-smile. "It's just something I like to do," he said and led her over to the chairs in front of the fire. "After the war, I struggled…with my grief, with my anger. Hûredhiel suggested meditation, and when that didn't work, drawing. The picture of my father is one of the first ones I finished."

"It's lovely," she said, casting her eyes over to it for a second look. "You miss him."

Thranduil sighed, propped his feet up on the ottoman. "I do. I wish he was still here. I wish he could have met you."

Narylfiel reached for his hand and then wrestled with the overly long sleeve on his robe that hung off her arms as she said, "I'm sure I am not at all what your father had in mind, Thranduil. Common. Sylvan. A disaster." She made a face at her attempt to roll up the voluminous fabric.

Thranduil reached over and stilled her arm, laced his fingers through hers. "Not a disaster," he corrected and kissed her hand, "and from where I sit, not very common at all."

Her cheeks pinkened. "When I was younger and then when I grew older, I used to wonder, did you ever draw any more pictures of me?"

He grinned. "Maybe," he said. Making her blush was becoming his favorite new pastime. "I wanted to sketch you this morning while you were in bed for sure."

Ah, there it was. Two dark spots appeared on her cheeks, and she looked away at the fire. "Is it getting a bit warm?" she said. She tugged at the neck of her robe.

Thranduil's eyes darkened a shade. "I think maybe it is," he agreed quietly.

A knock sounded on the door. "Should I answer it," said Narylfiel with a wicked grin, "and give Galion a proper shock?"

Thranduil stood up. "He already knows, or I'm a dwarf," he said. "Galion's no fool." He strode over to the door and cracked it open. It was Galion clutching a tray from the kitchens.

"My lord," he said and bowed his head. "I brought the tray for you and—well, for you." He passed the tray to his king and looked down the hall, bit his lip.

"Thank you, Galion," Thranduil said with an incline of his head. His butler, usually so amusing, only right now the Elvenking wondered what bothered him. Where was the smirking, sly Galion from earlier?

The king set the tray on the end table by the door and stepped into the hall. He folded his arms, waited.

Galion looked conflicted.

"Go on. Tell me," said Thranduil flatly.

"Galadhor said I mustn't interrupt, Your Highness…" he hedged and tugged on the end of his hair.

"Galion, we're out here in the hall. I'm already interrupted." Thranduil sighed, his eyes going to the door.

"I'm sorry, my lord. It's just that the dwarves were supposed to leave this morning," Galion said and frowned.

"I already knew of their departure," Thranduil said impatiently. "So? Let them leave. Good riddance."

"That's just it, Your Majesty," cried Galion, shamefaced. "They're not leaving. One of them is ill, really sick. He's been taken down to the healers. And the other dwarves? They're extremely angry. They said some…unflattering remarks about you, my lord."

The king's mouth tightened into an unhappy line. "No, you were right to tell me of this, Galion."

The butler's nervous frame instantly sagged from relief. Thranduil thought he heard him mutter thanks to Eru, but he couldn't be sure.

"I will be down shortly," Thranduil concluded reluctantly. "See to it that the dwarves don't break anything valuable." He entered the room and picked up the tray, brought it to the ottoman by the fire, and plopped it down in front of Narylfiel.

"What?" She could tell something was wrong from the moment he had come back in their room.

"Try to eat something," he said, frustratedly pushing a hand into his hair as he strode over to his closet. "There's some sort of issue with the dwarves. I'm going to go take care of it."

Narylfiel scrambled up from her chair by the fire, tray forgotten. She leaned against the closet door, eyed her new husband as he selected a blue tunic and a pair of dark grey leggings from the open shelf of folded garments. "I could go with you," she offered.

Thranduil shook his head. "No, you should rest. Eat." He shrugged off his robe and pulled the tunic on, his fingers deftly fastening the closures up the chest. He took a second to pick up the robe and place it in the dirty laundry bin by the door.

Always so tidy, Narylfiel thought to herself and smothered a grin.

"They just couldn't handle a single morning by themselves," Thranduil grumbled as he headed back toward the chairs by the fire, carrying a pair of tall dark boots. He sat down with a huff and met Narylfiel's eyes. "I'm sorry for this, naurenniel."

"Don't be," she said and casually plucked a piece of cheese and some bread from the tray. She noted with some interest that the majority of the things on the tray were her favorites, including little sour pickles, something she knew Thranduil hated. Well then, they knew.

"Thranduil, did you see—" she started to say.

"The pickles?" Thranduil interrupted and looked up from pulling on his boot. He smiled at her, despite his frustration. "I told you Galion had already figured it out. And Galadhor. And now Ernil along with the rest of the kitchen staff."

Narylfiel groaned. "Oh, and don't forget the Royal Guard," she added. "I'm sure they suspect as well."

Thranduil stood and went over to her, pulled her up from her seat, kissed her gently. "Well, they did see me carry you into my bedroom last night."

Narylfiel dropped her pickle.

Thranduil resisted the temptation to pick it up off the floor. That carpet was silk after all! He met her eyes and pulled her into his arms instead. "I'll go check on things and come back to you," he assured her. It was a promise to himself too, not to let his duty interfere with what he had with Narylfiel.

She nodded and then watched him go. Instead of feeling sorry for herself, she tucked into the nice little meal which Galion had brought. Narylfiel was surprised to find that she had quite the appetite. If she hurried, she could wash up and then go and change her clothes. Why sit around and mope when she could go and join him?

* * *

Thranduil could hear the shouts in the healing ward before he ever reached the door.

"I'll have no more of your uncanny elf magic on 'im! He's sick enough as it is!" one voice thundered.

"I understand, but if you just let me—" This voice was a shade calmer.

"He's suffering! Do something already!" Another voice sounded panicked.

The scene from the door was chaotic at best. The prep table was strewn with tonics, herbal powders, all sorts of medicines, and pestles. Three dwarfs and two of Thranduil's best healers, including Hûredhiel, crowded around one of the beds; the dwarves pushed in for a better view, all offering suggestions and refusing to leave their companion.

Prince Thorin. Thranduil could see that now. The dwarf looked to be in obvious pain, curledup on his side, his hair flung across his face.

"King Thranduil," said Hûredhiel as when she turned to reach for a packet of herbs. "Your Majesty, I was not expecting you."

The dwarves all turned at the same time and glared at him. "Coming to gloat?" the bald one accused.

Thranduil's eyes narrowed and before he could say something really cutting, Hûredhiel spoke up: "Of course not! King Thranduil is a very gifted healer in his own right."

The Elvenking slid past the dwarf to have a closer look.

"He's running a high fever. The prince woke up in the early hours of the morning complaining of a fierce headache and stomach pains."

Thranduil smirked. "Sounds like a simple hangover. Maybe your young prince of Erebor had a few too many rounds of my Dorwinion."

"If you think for a second..." blustered the taller dwarf—Dwalin, Thranduil remembered.

Thorin groaned, and Hûrediel shot Thranduil a look.

"We already tried a tonic for his stomach, but he couldn't keep it down," Hûredhiel informed her king, reaching for a compress. Her patient's eye's were glazed, his face was flushed with a fine sheen of moisture on his cheeks. She gently swept the dwarf's unruly hair away from his forehead and then gasped. Across the top of Thorin's forehead, a series of angry red welts marred the skin close to his hairline.

The dwarves' reaction was immediate and profound. Dwalin swore while the one in the funny hat cried, "What could have caused that?"

Nobody answered him. Hûrediel flew over to the medicine cabinet, her hands shaking as she pushed various bottles aside until she found the ointment she was looking for. She uncorked it and poured some onto a clean cloth.

But before she could smooth the soothing balm onto the sick prince's forehead, Dwalin caught her hand mid-air.

"And how do I know we can trust you?" he growled, his eyes worriedly going to the prince.

Thranduil stepped in between them. "Unhand her, dwarf," he said sharply.

"Hûredhiel gave them both a look of supreme annoyance. "I want to help," she told the pair of them, "and right now he's suffering."

Dwalin dropped her hand and scowled at Thranduil instead. The healer dabbed the ointment across the irritated skin as gently as she could.

"This is more than a mere hangover, my lord," Hûredhiel said grimly after a more careful examination of the irritated skin.

Thranduil leaned closer and then wished he hadn't. Hûredhiel traced the path of the red welts in the air, careful not to make contact with her hand. "See here?" she said quietly. "Look at the tissue around the inflammation—"

Thranduil swore, and the three dwarves stiffened at his reaction. "What? What did he see?"

"Get Wilem in here. Bring him at once," Thranduil ordered the other healer. For what Hûredhiel had pointed out to Thranduil was something he had seen well enough before—the unmistakable symptom of dark spidery lines, fanning out across the top of Thorin's hairline.

The dwarf prince had been poisoned.

Just then Wilem came through the door. "What is he doing here?" Dwalin jabbed a finger at the thin young man, who instantly recoiled.

"Guards, please take our guests back to their rooms," Thranduil instructed, schooling his face into a neutral expression.

The Royal Guard gestured for the dwarves to follow, but they did not budge. "I will not leave him," Dwalin insisted, waving a meaty fist in the king's direction. He cast a suspicious look at Wilem. "And why would you be calling him in here in the first place?"

Hûredhiel hesitated. Thranduil gestured to the guards. "Clear the room. You can leave now of your own free will," he told the dwarves plainly, "or my guards will drag you out."

"I would like to see them try it," challenged Dwalin. He pushed past Wilem to look once more upon the angry red line stretching across the young prince's brow. "What—what could have caused this?"

Wilem took it all carefully down in his notebook. "Has he come into contact with anything unfamiliar lately, that might not have agreed with him?"

It was at this moment that Narylfiel had the spectacularly bad sense of timing to show up. With her hair down past her shoulders, she wore a simple dress of forest green, and if anybody had paid the least bit of attention, they would have surely noticed that she looked radiant.

"I was looking for King Thran—oh," she stopped herself as soon as she noticed that her King was indeed with the healers and that all the dwarves wore particularly hostile expressions.

Dwalin glanced one more time at Thorin, then looked back at Narylfiel. His eyes trailed from the feverish blisters to Wilem, and then back to Narylfiel once again.

"You!" He shouted. "You've poisoned 'im somehow last night! With that—with that blasted hat!"

Of course, Narylfiel knew nothing of what had transpired in the healing ward before her arrival, and could only look rather startled at the accusation.

"If he dies, it will be murder on your hands, miss! Murder!"

Every head in the room turned to look at her, including Thranduil's, and a split second later, Thorin started to convulse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no! A wee bit dramatic cliffhanger.
> 
> And Mirkwood forest just got a little more dangerous! What could have happened? Was Prince Thorin poisoned? And more importantly, will he recover?... And who dunnit?
> 
> Thranduil: #GimmeABreak #NeedAVacay
> 
> Narylfiel: #Disaster #MrsThranduil
> 
> Please Comment, leave kudos, and Bookmark!


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